Three Bricks Shy
by Peregrine2
Summary: Vaughn visits his Aunt Trish
1. Chapter One

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.  
  
Vaughn visits his crazy aunt Trish.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter One  
  
Toss a coin in the air and there's a fifty-fifty chance that either heads or tails will come up. At least, that is what you're supposed to believe, right? Well, let me tell you, I have this antique silver coin that I got as a kid, and every time I flip it, it comes out tails. No lie. Weiss didn't believe me until he saw it for himself and went off whistling the Twilight Zone theme. He thinks…..no, he knows I'm insane. Hey, what can I say? It runs in the family.  
  
The story of the coin is this: it's my anchor. Whenever I feel ready to fly off the handle and go ten rounds with anyone who messes with me, I grab that coin from my pocket and fiddle with it mindlessly. Flashing before my eyes and lulling me into a trance, it seems to center me. Strange, huh? Well, not so weird when you know its history. It dates back to the 1750s and allegedly belonged to the French Minister of Finance during the reign of Louis XV. Yeah, that's right. This all comes from my mother's sister Trish, who gave me the coin at my father's funeral. With her fringed shawl and perfume that overwhelmed the senses like a cloud of incense, she swirled around me and told me that the coin and I needed each other, that she saw it in a vision. Crazy Aunt Trish. Acid casualty. Pot head. Keeper of the family ghost. Channeler extraordinaire. Haight Ashbury graduate. Former groupie. Scary. Exotic. Exciting. Deranged. Her green eyes so like mine, markedly intelligent despite the conspiracy theories and alien abductions that polluted her life, she was impulsive and daring and more like me than I cared to admit. We diverged when it came to the supernatural. I was firmly grounded and she was off flying with the fringe elements that filled her life.  
  
So back to the coin. Of course, I had to check her story, being the boy that I was. Curious to a fault, never accepting anything at face value. The local library gave me a clue that she might be telling the truth. There it was, staring me in the face. Jean Moreau de Séchelles. French Minister of Finance. My maternal grandmother had been a Moreau. Coincidence? I doubt it.  
  
Now I am sitting in an empty conference room with the coin cradled in my palm, thinking about the DSR and Rambaldi's prophesy. It was crazy stuff. I couldn't…..no, I wouldn't believe it. Sydney was gentle and kind. I saw it in her eyes and heard it in her voice whenever she spoke to me. There was no way I could believe this. When they'd dragged her into the van and shackled her to that chair and she'd stared at me with those wounded doe's eyes, I was overcome by emotion. What I felt in my heart…..the things I wanted to say and do…..powerless to help her at the one moment when she needed me most. All I wanted to do was set her free and rid her life of these psychic vultures.  
  
******  
  
Weiss appeared in the doorway with a shake of his head and slumped down in the chair next to me. "These stiffs need to get a life. You can't even take a crap in here without surveillance."  
  
"Imagine the clearance you'd need for that job," I muttered derisively, watching him through the steeple created by my fingers.  
  
Eric snorted, completely getting my joke. "Picture sitting in their weekly meeting with this Powerpoint slide comparing the crap rates of every spook on the Scooby squad."  
  
"Sounds like a job for….."  
  
"Stevie Haladki," Weiss finished with a grin.  
  
"Any word?" I asked with my customary frown forming on my forehead.  
  
"She's hanging in there," Weiss replied with a sigh.  
  
"And they still think it's her?" Of course they did, but I had to ask it anyway.  
  
Eric shrugged. "Until we give them reason to believe otherwise….yeah."  
  
That gave me an idea. "I know someone….a psychic."  
  
Weiss made a face. "Tell me you haven't been watching Crossing Over with John Edwards."  
  
"I'm serious. This person….she's my Aunt Trish," I said it quickly, hoping he hadn't caught the family connection.  
  
Eric never missed a trick. "Is this the Aunt Trish who hunts UFOs and stomps around in crop circles with her pagan friends?"  
  
I cringed. "Well, yeah, sometimes she's been known to do that, but…"  
  
"So you're thinking of calling on someone who channels spirits and is a close personal friend of Shirley MacLaine?" Weiss was in his element and I saw the glimmer of mischief in his eyes.  
  
"All that and more," I replied wearily. "Look, Eric, we're out of options here and I…. I think maybe she can help."  
  
The wheels in his mind were turning and could see the figurative smoke steaming out of his ears as he mulled over my idea. "What's her angle?"  
  
Trish's angle was psychometry, the ability to touch objects and gain impressions about that object. She was deadly accurate and had helped the Washington Metro police on numerous occasions. Government agencies had also contracted out her services and I knew she had a fairly high security clearance. "Psychometry."  
  
He nodded thoughtfully, totally getting my aunt's angle. Eric surprises me sometimes with his vast array of knowledge, which is one of the many reasons I keep him around. "So you want her to touch Page 47 and get some vibrations? Maybe figure out who the prophesy is really referring to?"  
  
"Something like that." Weiss shook his head and I added, "You got a better idea?"  
  
"No," he admitted, "But tell me this. How do you plan on separating that page from those ghouls?"  
  
"Oh. Right. I didn't think of that."  
  
"I understand." He patted my shoulder in commiseration, knowing how worried I was about Sydney. "Call your aunt, Vaughn."  
  
"But you just said…."  
  
"Call her. We'll find a way to get past Dr. Doom and Nurse Gloom."  
  
***** 


	2. Chapter Two

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions  
  
Vaughn visits his crazy aunt Trish.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter Two  
  
First there was the problem of getting her into the building. She might have clearance, but these goons wouldn't allow just anyone to waltz into their lair. So I had to run this past Devlin, and I could guess what his reaction would be. With slightly shaking hands, I dialed my cell phone and listened to the series of clicks that connected me to his personal line.  
  
"Devlin." He sounded tired and short of breath, like maybe he'd just jogged the length of the corridor to take this call.  
  
OK, Vaughn, make it direct and right to the point. My words ran together as I blurted, "Sir, I'd like to bring in a consultant to help Bristow."  
  
Silence, then the rasp of his asthmatic breathing in my ear. He hadn't shot me down, he was considering it, wasn't he? That counted for something. "What kind of consultant do you have in mind?"  
  
His impatience crackled in my ear and my restless leg started doing a tap dance. Let's face it, the man intimidates me, and I'm not exactly in his good graces. The coin took up residence in my hand as I fidgeted out an answer. "The psychic kind."  
  
"Run that by me again?" Devlin asked in disbelief.  
  
"My aunt is renowned for her….abilities. Her name is Patrice Moreau and she's done a lot of work for the police and the FBI and…."  
  
"I've heard the name." Now that was unexpected. Was Trish really so famous? What rock had I been living under all these years?  
  
"Really? Well then, you understand why I'm making this request."  
  
He snorted. "She's high risk, Vaughn. A certified loony….I mean, can we really depend on the word of someone who looks at tea leaves and gazes at crystal balls?"  
  
"Sir….yes, I think we can," I asserted, my voice managing not to shake for once. "Bristow is too important….we can't risk blowing her cover and we're running out of options."  
  
"Too important to us or too important to you?" Devlin shot back, leaving me feeling like all the oxygen had gone out of the room.  
  
I caught my breath and half a dozen bits of snappy repartee came to mind. Biting my tongue hard, I replied, "Please, sir, can we at least try?"  
  
Devlin sighed heavily and I could almost see him resting his head in his hand. "Very well, but I warn you, she is your responsibility, and if anything happens…..so help me, this is on your head."  
  
"I understand, sir. Thank you. I won't disappoint you."  
  
"You'll have the necessary papers signed and faxed within the hour." He hung up and I felt only slight relief, because the hardest part was yet to come. Convincing Trish would be about as easy as fox-trotting with a pit bull.  
  
******  
  
Thanks to everyone for the feedback. It means a lot. After tonight's show, I'll be diverging from canon, but hey, that's what fanfic is all about. 


	3. Chapter Three

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone, and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions  
  
Vaughn visits his crazy aunt Trish.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Eric hovered over me with his yo-yo and showered me with garlic and beer fumes. "When's she coming in?"  
  
"I haven't asked her yet." I stared at my reflection in the polished face of my watch. All frown lines and no smile. Definitely not good for my mental health.  
  
"What are you waiting for?" His latest hobby was driving me crazy, but it was better than biting his nails and spitting them at the waste basket. "You got the clearance, right?"  
  
"Yeah." The pit bull was turning my ankle into raw meat, and the longer I waited, the worse it would be.  
  
"So what's the problem?" Weiss nearly beaned me with his toy as he attempted a death-defying maneuver.  
  
I jumped to my feet and decided it was safer to pace than put myself in the line of fire. "My aunt and I aren't exactly close. I mean, the last time I saw her was at my college graduation." I fondled my watch, not wanting to admit that 12 years had come and gone since my college days.  
  
"Did Trish give you that watch?" Eric asked idly, staring at my fingers as they stroked the links on the wristband.  
  
"How'd you know?" Wait, was this a trick question? You never could tell with Weiss.  
  
He smiled mischievously. "Because it's permanently grafted to you and every time you talk about Trish…..you get this weird note in your voice, like maybe she's something special but it's not cool to admit it."  
  
I sank back into my chair with a sigh. "Trish is…..how do I say this? The family black sheep? It's not just the occult crap, although that certainly drove a major wedge between her and my grandfather."  
  
"Was it religion?" Eric knew all about this. His sister had married a Gentile and his parents still hadn't forgiven her.  
  
"Partly. But it had more to do with my grandparents getting divorced. My mother moved past it but Trish was never able to forgive her father for leaving. She left home at 15 and had her name changed to Moreau. It's been over thirty years, and they're still not on speaking terms. As for me…..she seems fond of me for some reason," I said with a shrug.  
  
"What's Trish look like….if you don't mind my asking?" Weiss was forever on the prowl, and age was no barrier. If she walked and talked and looked halfway decent, he was in like Flynn.  
  
Trish's image flitted into my mind and I knew I shouldn't share it with Eric. I mean, my aunt was a total babe. She'd caused a stir among my horny friends at graduation and before the weekend was over, she'd walked away with half a dozen phone numbers. That was a dozen years ago, and even though she had to be pushing 50, my gut told me she looked as good as ever. My family had a way of growing into their looks and ripening with age, and Trish was a dead ringer for my gorgeous grandmother. "She's umm….look, maybe I better call her and get this over with."  
  
"Why are you avoiding the question?" Weiss was intrigued enough to toss his yo-yo down on the table and I knew I was in trouble. "Is she that hideous? Does she have warts on her face and hair growing out of her chin?"  
  
I sputtered with laughter. "Not exactly. But she's not….your type."  
  
"Who cares?" Eric really didn't care, but I did. Trish would eat him alive.  
  
I couldn't suppress the smile that spilled onto my lips. "Trust me, you don't want to mess with my aunt."  
  
"Sounds good to me. What's her number?" Weiss asked eagerly with his cell phone ready and waiting.  
  
I saw through his game and knew why he was doing it. Time and time again, Eric found ways to offset my fears and worries with his bold and cheerful personality and by focusing our conversation on his carnal interests, he gave me the courage to follow through on my original plan. After throwing him a look that told him I was on to him, I retrieved her number from my cell phone's memory and finally let the call go through.  
  
******* 


	4. Chapter Four

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions  
  
Vaughn visits his crazy aunt Trish.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter Four  
  
"There's no answer," I reported, slightly relieved that Trish wasn't home.  
  
"Big deal. Where does she live?" Weiss inquired, his dark eyes challenging me…..reminding me of another pair of chocolate drop eyes and filling me with guilt for my part in this.  
  
"Georgetown." I forgot to mention that we're in DC, that they hauled Syd off on some government jet with the CIA contingent in hot pursuit. Haladki flew with his DSR buddies and Jack Bristow commandeered a transport for me, Weiss, and himself. I don't know if we are the Three Musketeers or the Three Stooges, but I know I don't feel very brave right now.  
  
"She can afford to live there?" Trish could afford to live anywhere she wanted. I swear to God, she must have channeled King Midas, because she was floating in far more dough than any one person could use in a lifetime.  
  
I nodded as he followed me down the corridor and out to the parking lot behind FBI headquarters. Ironic, isn't it, that the spooks are detaining her in the heart of Mulder and Scully country. OK, I find it ironic, because nobody else around here has a sense of humor. If any of them cracked a smile, their faces would probably disintegrate into a zillion puzzle pieces. Mismatched jigsaws, the whole lot of them, with their ill- fitting Armani and spit-shined shoes and overly gelled hair. The exception was Carson Evans. Don't even get me started on her because I'll probably kill someone or knock a hole in the wall with my fist. How dare she invade my turf and take away Sydney because of some fucking poem that someone had encoded on parchment? I didn't buy it and neither did Weiss. Complete garbage if you ask me, but nobody was asking my opinion. That's why I needed Trish to validate what I already knew was true. Despite her reputation and maybe because of it, people tended to underestimate her. I mean, I know what I used to think about ESP and those who espoused its cause. Then Trish gave me a clue and my whole life changed.  
  
As I drove through the streets and listened to Eric warble along with the radio, my mind flew back to my graduation weekend and my last visit with Trish. She had this way about her….fey, almost elven, where she looked at you slyly and made some offhand comment, tossed out idly with one of her famous half smiles and a lift of her eyebrow.  
  
Trish had touched my hand slightly and as her fingers made contact with the ring that my girlfriend Sharon had given me, she stopped dead, flash-frozen in her tracks with a terrified expression on her face. She clawed at her throat and gasped for air, her face turning red and then blue.  
  
"Trish, what is it?" I had said desperately, thinking she was choking on something.  
  
Her mouth opened and her features shifted like someone had painted a portrait before smearing the colors into an unrecognizable mess. With wide pupils, she teetered on four-inch heels and almost clobbered me with her outstretched hand. As I ducked, I heard this keening work its way out from deep within her before transforming itself into a piteous mewling. "Help me, help me please….."  
  
I stilled my restless movements at the sound of those words. Not Trish's voice. Sharon's voice pleading, begging for mercy…. Sharon's face imprinted on Trish's…..it was more than I could stand. Blocking my ears, I remember running down the hall and barely reaching the toilet before I lost the contents of my stomach. Even that didn't help banish Trish's mantra and I had folded myself up into a ball on the cold, tile floor. Before today, my mind had been filled with my lack of job prospects and the possibility of living off my winnings as a pool shark. Now those selfish thoughts were replaced by the horrifying thought of losing my girlfriend. Tears would not come to me, not that day or all through the rest of the weekend that Sharon disappeared from my life. My aunt remembered nothing, and I wouldn't dare tell her what I'd witnessed. Time and time again, she tried to connect with me and I did nothing but shrug her away coldly, just like I had always done in our previous encounters. She passed from my life, silent and chilled by my indifference.  
  
Six months of agony passed with no word and no jobs. I entered law school and was halfway through my first semester when they found Sharon's remains beneath a mound of leaves in Sequoia National Park. Death by asphyxiation. A senseless murder with no evidence and no motive. A coda to my thoughtless young life. Truly, I had thought she was my soul mate and I was destined to spend the rest of my life with her. After that, it was never the same for me. I could never give myself fully to any relationship and one after the other, the women all dropped from my life. Of course, the fact that I worked as an intelligence operative had nothing to do with that, right? Alice got closer than the others, but she saw the end several months before I did. And then a certain Bozo appeared on the horizon and I found that my life was meaningless without her. Our fates are intertwined and inextricably bound for all eternity. The moment I saw her, I was hopelessly lost in those eyes and her soul touched mine. What I had with Sharon barely touched the surface of what I felt for Syd. So I would do anything…..yes, anything to get her out of this mess. Follow her to the gates of hell or brave the likes of Aunt Trish. Whatever it would take to restore balance.  
  
Weiss jerked me out of my reverie. "Is this it?" he asked in disbelief, pointing at an ancient black and white truck that was in stark contrast to the sea of expensive imports that dotted this wealthy neighborhood of Federal townhouses. It blocked the end of her driveway and coughed out clouds of black smoke as its owner slid from under its carapace, covered in soot and smudged with oil. Even at this distance, I could see her green eyes widen in recognition as she spotted me huddled behind the wheel.  
  
With a sigh, I pulled in behind the badly rusted bumper of her truck and nodded my head in greeting. My aunt, ghost hunter and master mechanic. This truck was older than me and was strung together with bubble gum and bailing wire. She tossed down her tools and came running with a huge smile splitting her face.  
  
Weiss grinned. "My, this ought to be interesting."  
  
******** 


	5. Chapter Five

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions  
  
Vaughn visits his crazy aunt Trish.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter Five  
  
Age touched her lightly, if at all. She was the same sprite with her whorls of strawberry blonde hair and green cat's eyes, but there were differences. Behind the mischief, I saw a sadness that seemed strangely out of place on her impish face. She stopped a few paces from me and stared at us both with unabashed curiosity. "Allo, Michel," she said quietly, her words still colored by that exotic French accent I remembered so well. "And hello to your friend."  
  
She extended her grimy hand and Weiss took it gingerly. "Eric Weiss."  
  
Trish suddenly noticed the oil and grease covering every inch of her and looked over at me. "Merde. So sorry….I would hug you, but then I would ruin your perfect suit and we would not want that."  
  
"Your neighbors must love your truck," I commented idly, feeling like someone had dropped me on my head. Trish always had that effect on me….hanging with her was like a ride on a non-stop calliope or trips through a funhouse with no exit.  
  
She laughed and the family dimples came out in full force. Eric stared between the two of us, seemingly startled by the resemblance between us. It was weird, because the dimples had skipped over my mom and her other siblings. Green eyes and dimples stared out from the dusty pictures of ancestors that polluted the walls in my grandmother's farmhouse. It was uncanny and kind of scary to see DNA replicating itself in my family tree. Kind of like…..Sydney's DNA sequence. It hurt me to think about it, but I had to deal with it. Trish picked up on my vibes and a flash of sympathy passed across her face, disappearing almost as quickly as it appeared. With a chuckle, she admitted, "Love is not a word they would use for poor Tilda."  
  
"Your truck has a name?" Weiss asked.  
  
She scolded, "But of course. You men have names for all sorts of things….so why not your cars?" Trish's eyes dropped quickly to Eric's groin and as she turned away to gather up her tools, I saw a hint of red creeping across his neck.  
  
"Is she always like this?" he muttered when she was out of earshot.  
  
"Always." I pasted a smile on my face when she turned back to us.  
  
Trish motioned for us to follow her back to the tiny garage and I swear, my jaw must have dropped to my knees at seeing the shiny black Porsche Targa parked inside.  
  
"You renting out space?" Weiss cracked, finding it impossible to believe that someone with the rusty wreck out front could also have this marvelous machine.  
  
Trish shook her head with a tight smile. "One of my clients….gave this to me."  
  
Since when had she gone into business? Ghost-hunting was usually pro bono work.  
  
"Wow," Eric whistled. "You hiring?"  
  
"Sorry. The Happy Haunting Ground died with the wave of dot.bombs." Trish waved her hands and smiled wryly. How well I remembered her dark and sarcastic side, one that she usually used to shoot verbal darts at her beloved family.  
  
Eric glanced over at me and I shrugged. What did I know about her clients?  
  
"Nice ride." Eric patted the hood, his dark eyes bubbling with curiosity. He really wanted to know how she had managed to pull this off.  
  
Trish procured a set of keys from her pocket and dropped it into his hands. "Tell you what. If you manage to move Tilda, you can drive the Porsche."  
  
Eric threw me one of those 'is she for real' glances and I nodded.  
  
"Cool," he said, throwing off his jacket and opening his hand for the truck keys. Trish smiled coolly and watched as he sauntered down the steep driveway.  
  
"Why are you here?" Now that the introductions were over, the gloves were off. "You have not called or written in over a year and suddenly….voila, you are on my doorstep."  
  
I could bullshit my way out of most situations, but not this one. This was one of those times when I might as well be as transparent as one of her ghostly friends, because Trish could see right through me. "We need your help."  
  
"Ah," she replied like that was some divine revelation, but I sensed the sharp edge of her Gallic temper unfurling like a flag in a stiff gale-force wind. The flash of her eyes, the way her fingers curled into her palms…..it was like looking in a mirror.  
  
"One of my friends is in trouble. The government has her and….."  
  
Trish held up her hand, slightly mollified by my penitent tone. "You are wasting your time here. I am out of the business."  
  
I raised an eyebrow, looking at the Porsche and throwing her a questioning glance. She had the good grace to flush before saying, "I don't have to explain myself to you."  
  
"So you do occasional favors for your friends but won't help your own family," I shot back acerbically. Why am I not surprised? She never had use for any of us and I don't see why she would change now.  
  
Trish rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. "It is not that simple."  
  
No, it never is. Now that I had come so far, I wasn't about to give up on this. "Would you at least listen to what I have to say?"  
  
She weighed and measured my request and I saw her shoulders sag with some invisible burden. "Very well. I will listen, but I make no promises. Why don't you make yourselves at home while I shower?"  
  
Befuddled and bemused. I know that's redundant, but this is Trish we're talking about. Obfuscation. Now there's a word. Maybe I would share it with Weiss, or maybe I would join him at the end of the driveway as he sweated and swore at my aunt's unresponsive truck. With a toss of my own jacket, I scuffed my feet and went to rescue my friend before he got in too deep.  
  
******  
  
Trish's original challenge was to move the truck, and that should have been easy. I mean, technically, we could push the truck out onto the street without starting it up. Trouble was, there were no parking spaces in sight. Trish knew this, and that was the only reason she'd made such a frivolous suggestion.  
  
"Can you believe this?" Weiss tossed the keys on the ground in frustration and kicked one of Tilda's tires. "This fricking truck….oh sorry, Tilda, is a piece of shit."  
  
"I know." He had the door cranked open and I noticed a strange looking object in the front seat. "What the hell is that?"  
  
"Hideous, isn't it?" Eric commented as I reached in and grabbed it off the seat. The 'objet d'art' was a black vase with filigreed tragedy and comedy masks decorating its edges. The two of us stared at it in disbelief, because its design went way beyond the boundaries of good taste. As I cradled it like a baby, I felt this weird tingling sensation in my fingers and it seemed to move under my hands. When I looked down, I swore that one of the masks leered at me.  
  
"This thing is possessed," I yelped, passing it off to him like a hot potato.  
  
Eric placed it carefully back on the seat and looked at me oddly. "You're losing it, buddy."  
  
"I swear to God, Eric, I felt something…."  
  
"But of course you would," said a quiet voice at my elbow. Trish stood there, freshly scrubbed and combed, looking nothing like a gypsy queen or someone who dabbled in the occult. In fact, she looked completely normal in her tailored blue jeans and periwinkle sweater. With a small and rather shy smile, she explained, "The vase is haunted, just as you said."  
  
"You heard that?" I managed to stifle a groan, but couldn't suppress a shudder.  
  
Trish nodded. "But this thing you felt, it does not surprise me. I have known for a long time that you are gifted."  
  
Gifted. Is that what she called this curse? As I stared back at her in revulsion, memories that I had buried in the bowels of my mind rose to the surface. Sydney's picture frame and that antique shop….being drawn there against my will and walking straight to the back of the store….holding the frame in my hands where it nestled comfortably, a healing and peaceful warmth filling my body. Mesmerized by its patina, I moved like a sleepwalker and bought the damned thing. Back at my house, I barely remembered the incident and put it out of my mind. But there had been other times…..'I have an instinct about you' had been more than acting on a feeling. Something had chimed, moved into synchrony, like the gears of a clock clicking into position and for the first time, my life had meaning. The disgust faded and I swear I heard Trish whisper in my mind, "You know I am right."  
  
It must have been only a moment later that Weiss asked, "Gifted in what way?"  
  
Trish shrugged. "That is not for me to say. Shall we go inside?"  
  
Eric hooked his thumb toward the vase. "Don't you want to lock up?"  
  
"No one will touch it." Trish sounded dead certain.  
  
"But surely it's worth something," Weiss stated.  
  
Her eyebrow raised with thinly veiled amusement. "It is quite valuable. 18th century Sevres if I am not mistaken, but that is no matter."  
  
Eric lost it. "I don't get it. This is an open invitation to a thief and….  
  
Trish interrupted sharply. "Have you not heard a thing that I've said? The vase has a malevolent spirit attached to it. Anyone who is foolish enough to steal it will rue the day they picked it up. It curses its owners and I have been ordered to dispose of it."  
  
Turning on her heel, she swept past us and slammed the screen door on her front porch. Weiss's mouth opened and closed before he said, "Don't say 'I told you so'. You warned me about her and I…."  
  
I clapped him on the back. "Let's get this over with."  
  
"If you say so," he muttered in a subdued tone that was completely at odds with his normal behavior. With our tails between our legs, the two of us mounted her front steps and prepared to fox-trot with Aunt Trish.  
  
****** 


	6. Chapter Six

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions  
  
Vaughn visits his crazy aunt Trish.  
  
*****  
  
Sorry this is so short, but I didn't have much time to write today.  
  
Chapter Six  
  
The house was sunny and cheerful, and somehow, it was not what I expected. Instead of bead curtains and incense burners, I saw immaculately appointed rooms with highly burnished hardwood floors and floor to ceiling windows of sparkling glass. The front two rooms were full of exercise equipment and a high-tech entertainment system. Weiss looked like he was creaming his pants and if the Porsche had been an appetizer, then the audio system and wall- mounted plasma screen were a full course dinner.  
  
He flipped through rack after rack of CDs and looked at me in wonder. "Talk about eclectic music tastes. She has everything from Linkin Park to Toscanini. Think she'll let me borrow some disks while we're here?"  
  
"Maybe." Weiss was like an AC circuit, his opinions flipping back and forth between fearing her and liking her. Ever hopeful, he never let life keep him down for long. He moved on to her DVD collection and left me to my own devices.  
  
Trish was nowhere in sight, but I heard dishes clattering from the back of the house. Funny, I don't remember her ever cooking or helping out in the kitchen. During those long ago occasions when the family gathered for holidays, I remember her holding fort in the front parlor while my mother and her other sisters toiled away on the turkey. They resented her easy ways with the men, flirting and smoking and downing highballs like they were lemonade.  
  
With a shake of my head, I stopped to look at a series of paintings, astounded by what I saw. Graceful landscapes with exquisite dashes of color, pointillist perspectives of the French countryside, and surreal curios filled her walls, artfully arranged and displayed by someone with the instincts and tastes of a master decorator. Who could this unknown artist be? I knew talent when I saw it, and these pieces were unfamiliar. When I looked closer and saw the looping lines of the artist's signature, I was sure I must be hallucinating. Looking again changed nothing. Trish had painted these pictures. Unbelievable. I had to sit down and absorb this. This did not compute. Like an unbalanced equation, it hovered in my mind, unsolved and cryptic. Why should this bother me? Well, it's like this. I happen to be a pretty good artist and painting is one of my hobbies. It's therapeutic and helps me relax after a long day at the job. While other guys flop on the couch and drink beer, I retreat to my studio and lay down brushstrokes on canvas. It's one of my closely guarded secrets and not even Weiss knows about it.  
  
Coldplay started up in the background while Trish sliced and diced in the far reaches of the house and I was sitting here freaking out over a few pieces of art. But it was more than that. It was everything. The way I looked like her, our mannerisms, my "gift", and now this artistic ability. Memories I had suppressed were being dredged up and thrown in my face at every turn. What other skeletons lurked in her closet, ready to spring their nasty surprises on me?  
  
"Hey, Michael, get a load of this." Eric's voice sliced through my self- absorbed state and drew me to my feet. Like a sleepwalker, I moved slowly to his side and stared dumbly at an old, sepia-toned photo of a hockey player with my face.  
  
******* 


	7. Chapter Seven

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions  
  
Vaughn visits his crazy aunt Trish.  
  
*******  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
"This one of your relatives?" Weiss asked. "Because the resemblance is downright eerie."  
  
That was the understatement of the year. The young man in the picture could have been my twin, right down to the cleft in his chin and a shock of sandy blonde hair. Years of flying a desk had darkened my hair and etched permanent frown lines on my forehead, but in my younger years, I lived outside, with a permanent surfer's tan and bleached blonde locks. "Yeah," was all I said, because I didn't know what to say. This picture, hell, this entire night had knocked the wind out of my sails. My mother's family was filled with women and none of the men looked even remotely like me.  
  
"So is he related?" Now that was a very good question. The mystery man had to be somehow connected by blood, but I didn't know who the hell he was.  
  
"I guess." I scratched my head absently and was relieved when Trish popped her head out of the kitchen.  
  
"I threw together some dinner. Come on back to the patio." Her voice was almost gruff and I was quite sure she had seen what we were looking at.  
  
Eric smiled in delight. "Gee, all this and dinner too? Your aunt is quite the host."  
  
An interesting choice of words, but I could see he was serious. Eric vaulted over her coffee table and broke a land speed record on his way to the kitchen. My more sedate pace allowed me to inspect the premises and more surprises awaited me on the other side of that door. Kitchens used to be the center of a home, and I could see Trish had taken this to heart. The room spanned the width of the house and was flanked by double bay windows and French doors that opened onto the garden. Healthy plants thrived in the sunny environment and cheerful pots of geraniums lined the patio. I saw that Eric was already tucking into a steak and was in the throes of conversation with Trish. Good, it would give me a chance to regroup and get my bearings. The floor was patterned ceramic tile and a long island cut through the middle of the room. State-of-the-art equipment, marble countertops, and ample storage space. A wine rack took up one end of the island and I approved of every bottle in the rack. At the far end of the room, a spiral set of iron stairs disappeared into a loft and curiosity almost got the best of me. There was a studio up there and I was dying to see the rest of her work. But my manners reasserted themselves and I turned my attention to the patio.  
  
Trish was laughing over one of Weiss's stories and I watched her for a second from behind one of the French doors, comparing what I knew about her with what I saw in front of me. It didn't make sense. Why wasn't she draped all over him, flirting outrageously and halfway to the bedroom before the cocktails arrived? Even her amusement seemed forced and erected for Eric's benefit, to make him feel at home and not troubled by whatever sorrow filled her heart. Because I could almost taste the sadness that surrounded her like an aura. How I could know this after not seeing her for a dozen years was another one of those questions that kept creeping up on me. And why I chose just that moment to turn my head and stare at her kitchen hearth was another anomaly.  
  
Something drew me away from the door and over to the fireplace on the far wall. The marble mantle was topped by a painting of our family homestead in Fleury. It was exquisitely rendered and I felt a surge of longing so profound that it startled me. My eyes dropped and stopped in mid-stare, caught by the object hanging on a nail. A funeral wreath. Directly over the wreath was an urn, and next to that was a picture of a strapping man and his Porsche. Pain surged in my head and I staggered sideways, the mental gears of my mind clicking like the pincers of a scarab beetle. Before I could fall, a strong set of hands caught my shoulders and steadied me.  
  
"So now you know," Trish said softly, and before I could protest, she folded me in a fierce hug, her thin frame shaking with sobs. For a moment, I stood stiffly, meeting Eric's eyes over her head and staring helplessly, begging for his help. He shook his head and withdrew from the kitchen, leaving me alone with Trish. Alone and forsaken. My heart could not withstand her sorrow and I finally returned her hug as her words rang in my ears.  
  
******* 


	8. Chapter Eight

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions  
  
Vaughn visits his crazy aunt Trish.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter Eight  
  
"Tell me about the man in the picture." A double-edged statement if ever one existed, but one that cut straight to the heart of the matter. The hockey player and the Porsche guy were important to us both. She looked between me and the fireplace and seemed to come to some decision.  
  
"Come and sit." Trish folded herself elegantly into a wingback chair and hugged her knees to her chest. As I waited expectantly, I noticed a thin circlet of gold on her left ring finger and felt a cold shudder work its way up my spine. "Robert Charles. Have you heard the name?"  
  
Who hasn't heard of perhaps the most famous chef in America? Co-founder of the Institut Gastronomique and executive producer of his own cooking show, he was the Michael Jordan of the culinary world. "Yes."  
  
"Robert and I became very close when he came to this country. He owns the Porsche and he….was my husband," Trish explained, her voice quavering as she tried to hold it together.  
  
The past tense wasn't lost on me, but I don't remember hearing anything about him dying. And what was this about marriage? Far as I know, nobody in the family knew about this. "What happened?"  
  
"I had this recurring dream and it always came out the same way. Robert was driving his car, very fast and very tight around the turns. He never listens…..and he would not heed my warning. Every day I would tell him to get rid of the car, that it was bad luck, and he would laugh it off," Trish recounted, her eyes misty with emotion.  
  
"He didn't believe in your powers, did he?" Nothing strange about that. It had taken years before she made a believer out of me.  
  
She shook her head. "Do you remember that terrible ice storm that hit the mid-Atlantic states in January?"  
  
"Vaguely." I didn't make a habit of watching the Weather Channel.  
  
"The dream came again that night, but this time it was more clear. I was in the road, waving my arms and telling him to stop. He drove around me and his car slid on the ice and went over the embankment. When I awoke from that dream, the phone was ringing and the police were on the other end."  
  
"I'm so sorry," I said, knowing that words were inadequate but wanting to offer some small measure of comfort. When I placed my hand on her shoulder, she shrugged it off and got to her feet, pacing like a caged lioness in much the same way I paced when I was agitated.  
  
"You know, Michel, I could have stopped him. I could have…..taken his keys or….sabotaged his car. But no, I let him go, knowing what would happen…." Her voice was wracked with the same sort of guilt that plagued me about Sydney, so I understood where she was coming from.  
  
"It's not your fault. How can you possibly blame yourself for this? We all have free will and there's no way you could have stopped him," I offered gently.  
  
"I tell myself that every day, but then, I had the Sight." That capital S was so vivid that it burned in the air between us. "The Sight is a blessing at times, but it is also a curse, and the bearer has the responsibility to turn events if they can. God knows I tried, but I could not stop this from happening!"  
  
"You did what you could." What more could I say to comfort her?  
  
She jammed her hands in her pockets and turned back to me. "When they released the car to me, they said I should total it, that it was beyond repair. But I could not do that to him…that car was an extension of his soul. So I had it restored, and I have it washed and waxed each week. The car is….."  
  
"Like a shrine?" I guessed.  
  
"Like that," she agreed. "So after that night, I decided that I would ignore my talent and let it go to seed."  
  
Her reasons for turning me down were fully justified and I knew I had no right to ask this favor of her. The devil in me challenged the angel on my shoulder and dared me to act on my instincts. Do the right and honorable thing or give in to my feelings? Damnit, I could not let this opportunity go, no matter the cost. "And did that happen?"  
  
Trish knew what I was asking. She ducked her head, but not before I caught the quick flash of anger in her eyes. "It did not," she replied wearily. With a sigh, she added, "Tell me how I can help you."  
  
The words came out of me in a flood, bottled up for days by anxiety and the kind of angst that was part and parcel of my job as Sydney's handler. When I got to the part about the DSR, Trish's eyes darkened and her fingers clenched into tight balls of barely repressed rage. "Carson Evans is part of this? I should have known."  
  
"You know Dr. Evans?" I asked incredulously as Weiss made his way back into the room and leaned against the edge of the counter.  
  
"I would not give her the courtesy of using that title," Trish spat, her eyes shooting out emerald sparks as she lit up a cigarette and leaned back in her chair. "Do you know how the good doctor got where she is? By harvesting innocents and selling their services to the highest bidder."  
  
"How do you know her?" I wasn't entirely surprised that they had crossed paths, because after all, they were in the same line of work.  
  
"Because I was one of her test subjects!" Trish countered acidly.  
  
Weiss looked at me hopefully and I had to agree that things were looking up. My aunt was royally pissed and it shouldn't be difficult to convince her to help us. Still, that other part of me warred with my conscience, telling me that it was wrong to use her like this. "So there's no love lost…."  
  
"Not at all," Trish stated, dragging hard on her cigarette and grinding it out in a fit of temper. When her fingers brushed against mine accidentally, she froze for a second and grabbed my hand with both of hers. I felt an inrush of warmth as she concentrated and a moment later, she released my hand and said, "You should have told me about this girl and saved us a lot of time."  
  
"But I did tell you…." I started.  
  
Trish cut me off with a downward chop of her hand. "Your true feelings were not taken into consideration. I will do everything I can to help you both. But first, there is something you must do for me."  
  
Weiss was uncharacteristically silent, but he chose this moment to re-enter the conversation. "We'll do anything you want. Just name it."  
  
I had a really bad feeling about this. Trish merely smiled like some private joke was replaying in her head and said, "Follow me."  
  
******* 


	9. Chapter Nine

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions  
  
Vaughn visits his crazy aunt Trish.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter Nine  
  
"What does she have in here, rocks?" Weiss complained as we hauled crates to the trunk of our rental car.  
  
"Maybe they're from the moon," I suggested flippantly, knowing how far out my weird aunt could be.  
  
Her laugh tinkled near my elbow and she handed me the freaking ugly vase from the front seat of her equally revolting truck . "Make sure this gets packed," Trish said firmly with another twinkle of that inner amusement I was learning to recognize. Was it a joke at our expense, or some other poor slob? I guess there was only one way to find out.  
  
"Are we done here?" I asked as sweat poured down my back and slicked my face.  
  
"Please say yes," Eric begged as he unknotted his tie, looking distinctly uncomfortable in the humid air.  
  
"Let's go," Trish said with a nod as she opened the door and made herself at home in the front seat.  
  
"Where to?" I slid behind the wheel and watched as Weiss contorted himself into a pretzel and made like a Chinese acrobat as he squeezed into what passed for a back seat.  
  
"Downtown to the Convention Center."  
  
It didn't take a psychic to realize this was bad news for me and Weiss. "Special event?" I asked lightly.  
  
She snickered. "You could say that."  
  
Trish gave me directions and Weiss mumbled, "Aren't you supposed to dispose of the vase?"  
  
"Why, yes," Trish answered with mock innocence. "And what better place than the Antiques Road Show?"  
  
"What?" I cried in unison with Eric as I came skidding to a halt, nearly colliding with the bus in front of me.  
  
"You're kidding, right?" Weiss pleaded from under one arm as he tried to restore circulation to his nearly lifeless limb.  
  
"Park here," Trish ordered, directing me to a handicapped spot. When I looked at her in disbelief, she shrugged and placed a fake license plate on the dashboard.  
  
"We'll get towed," I pointed out, slightly irritated that she was so cavalier about our rental car.  
  
"Whatever." Trish jumped out and was off at a fast trot.  
  
"This is so not happening," Weiss grumbled as Trish disappeared through the door of the convention center's lower hall. "How much worse can this night get?"  
  
"Trust me," I confided as she emerged with a hand cart. "It can get much worse."  
  
"That's the problem," Weiss cracked. "I do trust you."  
  
I smiled and helped him load up the last of the crates. Trish was smiling and waving to a bunch of uptight looking people as we trudged along behind her, and judging from the rods stuck straight up their butts, I guessed that some of them were snooty antiques dealers. I swear I heard some of them sniff with disdain as she found a table and started to uncrate her treasures. "This is the last of it," she proclaimed as she put up a sign and waited for the vultures.  
  
"This is a joke, right?" I said, pointing to her sign. Verite Antiquities.  
  
"This was a sideline for Robert," she said, dusting and straightening the pile of junk on the table.  
  
Weiss looked at me blankly and I hissed, "I'll explain later."  
  
Trish's fugly vase was prominently displayed and I swear it winked at me as I helped her make things look presentable. Eric hung back and sat on one of the crates, trying and failing to look inconspicuous. Throngs of people passed us by and didn't spare a glance to any of Robert's antiques, and just when I thought this was a wasted effort, I spotted a rather small and effete man making his way in our direction.  
  
"Parfait," Trish muttered, rubbing her hands together with glee. "Christophe, how are you?"  
  
"It's a slow night," he replied in utter boredom, his French accent as fake as the overly waxed mustache that adorned his upper lip.  
  
"Sorry to hear that. Perhaps I could interest you in a Sevres vase that I encountered in my travels," Trish drawled in a treacly tone that made my teeth ache.  
  
Eric's ears perked up with interest as she described the vase and what she knew of its history. He came over to me and whispered, "I thought she was going to dispose of this somewhere."  
  
"More like dump it on some unsuspecting fool, " I muttered.  
  
The man took out a monocle and peered at the vase. "Interesting," he said through his nose, examining the bottom and growing visibly excited. He drew a cell phone out of his pocket and spoke into it softly. The gist of the conversation, which he assumed we couldn't follow since he spoke in Creole, was that he and his partner planned on deceiving Trish and offering her a price that was far less than its true value. Not a moment later, his partner rushed over and made a huge fuss over Trish and offered his sympathies for her recent loss. Once the formalities were over, he and Christophe argued back and forth with Trish over price.  
  
"Wait a moment." Trish held up her hands. "Do you still have that lovely beaded necklace I noticed on my last visit to New Orleans?"  
  
The two men exchanged glances and I could see the greed shining in their eyes. "I believe so," Christophe stated evenly. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"Excellent. Why don't we make it an even trade?" Trish suggested with an innocent face.  
  
Christophe almost passed out with excitement. "Etienne, please get the necklace," he ordered as his partner scurried off like the rat that he was. "It'll be just a moment," he promised, wandering over to the end of the table and staring at a book with feigned interest.  
  
"Do you make a habit of this?" I queried, not entirely comfortable with her tactics.  
  
"Selling antiques?" Trish pretended not to understand my question.  
  
"That wasn't my question."  
  
"They are poachers," she said simply.  
  
"And you think that absolves you from what you're about to do?" Dropping a haunted object on an unsuspecting victim was hardly fair play.  
  
"I won't lose any sleep over it," Trish replied, nudging me in the side as Etienne returned with a cheap looking set of glass beads and placed them gently in her hands.  
  
"Yes," she breathed with reverence. "May I try them on?"  
  
"But of course," Christophe said in an oily tone that made me want to smack him.  
  
Trish fastened the clasp and nearly swooned as she looked down at her latest acquisition. "Oh, they are just as I remember them."  
  
Where did she remember them from, the five and ten cent store? The beads were transparent spheres mottled with black nodules and looked more like the figurative moon rocks in her crates than anything worn by a self- respecting woman. "So it's a deal?" Etienne said, itching to be off to swindle some other unsuspecting buyer.  
  
"It is all yours," Trish agreed, shoving the Sevres vase at him and watching as he and Christophe slapped each other on the back, thinking they had gotten the deal of the century.  
  
Trish giggled like a schoolgirl and grabbed Robert's sign from the center of the table. "What fools," she said as she turned the sign around and jotted something down.  
  
Eric had watched her performance with a mixture of outrage and admiration and I could see that he really liked her. "That was pretty slick," he said with a grin.  
  
"Thank you. Shall we go and celebrate?" Trish suggested, pouring on the charm. "It's on me."  
  
"With an offer like that, how can I refuse?" Weiss was falling under her spell, just as I had predicted. She'd changed, but at her core was the same woman who worked her sex magic when it suited her purpose.  
  
"Wait a sec," I protested as she placed the sign back on the table. "You hauled us all the way down here and put us to all this trouble over one vase?"  
  
"You have a problem with this?" Trish challenged, raising an eyebrow and looking at me crossly.  
  
I suddenly remembered why we were here and I shook my head, knowing this was her price for helping me.  
  
"Good. Then let's go," she said with a touch of impatience.  
  
"Hold on. What about the rest of…." I read her sign and my words trailed off as a pack of wolves descended on us in a feeding frenzy, kicking and shrieking and clawing each other over Robert's treasure trove of free antiques.  
  
"You were saying?" Trish countered with a raise of one eyebrow. With a triumphant smile, she offered each of us an arm and practically dragged us from the exhibition hall.  
  
******* 


	10. Chapter Ten

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter Ten  
  
I wasn't surprised to see that our car had been towed. Did I warn her? Shit, yeah, and did she listen? Does she ever listen? Has she ever cared about anyone's opinion other than her own? She thought of this as a lark and I thought of it as a trial by fire and wondered what I had done to deserve this.  
  
We hailed a cab that brought us to the garage that had our car and had to wait while she flirted with the garage owner and every single one of his employees. They were on a first name basis, which told me this had happened before. Weiss occupied himself with his yo-yo while I fidgeted with growing impatience.  
  
"This is a fucking nightmare," I muttered.  
  
"Patience, young Skywalker." Weiss said, looking behind me to indicate that my aunt had heard me.  
  
Trish patted my arm like she was comforting a small child. "The night is young and the air is sweet. What more could you want from life?"  
  
I didn't want to rain on her parade, truly I didn't. She was lonely and grieving and we were probably the first bright lights that had entered her life in a long while. But there was a far more pressing matter to attend to, and she was acting like it was of no great consequence. "We shouldn't be partying. We should be thinking of ways to help Sydney."  
  
Trish looked between us with a sigh. "Can we get to the journal tonight?"  
  
"Well….no. It's locked up," I admitted.  
  
"And everyone has gone home?" Trish inquired edgily.  
  
"Probably," Weiss offered, fending off my glare with a shrug. "No one's there, Michael. Even Sydney has been moved to a secure location."  
  
I hated that they were right. "Maybe you should drop me off at the hotel," I suggested wearily.  
  
"Nonsense. You haven't lived until you've sampled the food at my favorite bistro. It is to die for."  
  
My stomach betrayed me by growling audibly. "All right," I conceded reluctantly, not remembering the last time I had eaten.  
  
Weiss and Trish got in the front seat, which meant I got to play with the hump and pretend I was a contortionist. As they chatted easily, I reviewed the events of the last few hours and could not dispel a feeling of dread that grew with every passing minute. I could not say what triggered it or why I was having these feelings, but it slithered along my skin and coiled tightly in my stomach. Along with the lovely feeling of lead gut, that damned photo of the hockey player floated in front of my eyes, mocking me by dancing at the very edge of my roiling thoughts. That's when it hit me. Sudden knowledge…..no, what I was thinking couldn't be right. It was madness.  
  
Trish turned around, clearly concerned by my silence. "Is everything OK?"  
  
I couldn't find the words to tell her how I felt. There was too much to absorb, too much to wrap my mind around, and the person I trusted the most was incarcerated. So that left Trish and Weiss as my closest confidantes. Rather than lie, I took advantage of the fact that we'd pulled up in front of the bistro. "Let's eat," I said flatly, avoiding her eyes and leaving the car before I said something we'd both regret.  
  
The food was indeed marvelous and the wine was even better. It helped me forget for awhile and lessened the shaft of pain that lanced my head with every passing sip. The third course proceeded to desert and I excused myself to get some air. Before I got to the door, I heard a band start up in the main lounge. Some torch singer was doing a pretty good rendition of an old standard by Sylvie Vartan and I found myself humming along as I found a place along the back wall. If I squinted just a little, I could pretend that my mother was up there, singing like she had always done when I was a little boy. The singer moved on to some Frank Sinatra and I felt someone touch my arm lightly. "May I have this dance?"  
  
I was used to women hitting on me and was an expert in turning them down with no hard feelings. But the person next to me was Trish, and the light and expectation in her eyes was more than I could bear. "Yes." The dance was a fox-trot and I felt my feet forming the familiar steps before we made it to the dance floor.  
  
Her eyes crinkled as I twirled her around. "A pit bull, eh?"  
  
"What?" I exclaimed, losing my rhythm and falling off balance.  
  
"I'm glad you think so highly of me," Trish replied without a trace of her usual sarcasm.  
  
"I'm not going to ask how you picked up on that." What else did she know? Did she see all the unanswered questions lurking in my heart.  
  
"That's good, because I am not sure I could explain it." Her dark green eyes danced with some inner light, but then they grew more serious as she seemed to withdraw into herself.  
  
Half a dozen questions threatened to burst from me but I let my most pressing concern assert itself. "Where's Eric?"  
  
Trish smiled sadly and looked at the bar where Weiss sat shooting the breeze with some jailbait. "He found someone more to his liking."  
  
"I'm sure that's not true." The song ended and we settled near an open window where I welcomed the breeze wafting over me.  
  
"Come now, you don't have to flatter an old woman. I never seriously considered…..well, you know," she said, her tone surprising humble.  
  
"First of all, you aren't old….not even close, and second of all, Eric likes to chat up women. He's kind of like…." I tried to find an appropriate frame of reference but she beat me to it.  
  
"I was at the same age? Yes, I know," Trish murmured as she lit up a cigarette.  
  
The time was right to broach the subject that tore at me, but I would start gently. "You're quite the artist. I had no idea…..you had such talent."  
  
"No, I'm sure you didn't." Her words carried no resentment, but they were full of hidden meaning. My mother rarely spoke of her, and even less so after my father was murdered. "We all have dreams, Michael. Even one such as me…..wishes for something more."  
  
"What was your greatest dream?"  
  
"To study at the Sorbonne." Trish's voice came from faraway and I knew she was in the grip of memories.  
  
"What happened? Why didn't you go?" I asked breathlessly, knowing this was the turning point.  
  
Trish stared at me pointedly before blowing a smoke ring that floated away with the freshening breeze. "Life happened. Things changed…..and circumstances prevented me from following my heart."  
  
The words rushed out before I could stop them. "Is this where the hockey player comes into the story?"  
  
"The hockey player." Her words echoed oddly and her eyes filled with unshed tears.  
  
"The one in the picture on your wall," I prompted gently, knowing full well that she had understood me the first time. "The one who looks like me."  
  
She opened her mouth to answer at the exact moment that Weiss decided to rejoin us. "So, shall we go hit some bars?"  
  
"No." Trish beat me to the punch. "I am tired. Take me home, please."  
  
There was no argument from me. Maybe I wasn't ready to hear the truth, no matter that my heart told me otherwise. Eric frowned at me, puzzled by the tension between me and Trish. The three of us filed out of there in a silent column and piled into the car. We said our farewells at Trish's front gate, and I watched her huddled shape as she fumbled for her key and staggered into the house. For a long moment, I watched her house and knew that whatever the morning would bring, it would focus on something other than my problems. That was my purpose here, wasn't it? That's what I thought when I came out here, but now I wasn't sure about anything anymore.  
  
***** 


	11. Chapter Eleven

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter Eleven  
  
"You want to talk about it?" Weiss was sprawled on the couch with his feet up and watched me pace back and forth.  
  
"Nothing to talk about."  
  
"Could have fooled me," he said through a mouthful of popcorn. "You know, if you keep this up, you're going to wear a hole in the carpet."  
  
I threw him a sour look, which prompted another comment. "You know, all this angst is really bad for your health."  
  
"Now you sound like my mother."  
  
"Say, how is Marie doing?" Weiss could be annoying sometimes.  
  
"You're changing the subject." I stopped mid-stream to catch my breath and flopped into the chair across from him.  
  
"I didn't know there was a subject since you won't discuss it with me." Weiss sat up and did some daredevil stunts with his yo-yo and watched my face closely.  
  
"I told you, there's nothing wrong." I was always a terrible liar.  
  
Weiss snorted. "Is that why you downed four glasses of wine and ignored us at dinner? Or was that just for show? Because quite frankly…."  
  
"I didn't ask for your opinion."  
  
"You were pretty rude to your aunt. I mean, even I saw it as a problem. Why do you think I hit on that college girl?" Weiss stated.  
  
"Because you're a horny bastard with no life?" Snarky, aren't I?  
  
"Besides that," he waved off his loser status like it was no big deal. "You and Trish needed to talk, so I gave you some space."  
  
"Space," I fumed. "Is that what you call it? Because at the exact moment she might have told me something….."  
  
Weiss interrupted, "Things seemed to be pretty tense, so I thought I'd play referee."  
  
"I asked her about the hockey player," I blurted, finally getting it out in the open.  
  
"And?" Weiss burped without excusing himself and leaned his elbows on his knees.  
  
"She got all teary-eyed and wouldn't answer."  
  
"So what if you have some relative who looks like you? What's the big deal?" Eric really didn't get it, but then, he didn't know me all that well. Yeah, he was my best buddy and we went to games and out for pizza and beer, but our intimacy didn't often extend beyond that. I knew the story of his life but he only knew the first chapter of mine.  
  
I was about to start resuming my pacing when he stopped me with his arm and pushed me back in my seat. "It's a big deal! I mean, it may involve m-my…." The words hovered on my lips as I forced it out with every last bit of will I possessed. "I might be adopted."  
  
Eric's eyes widened as I let my little bomb settle into his mind. "So tell me about it." I could see the sincerity and concern shining from his eyes and knew he really wanted to know, that he was really worried that I was losing it over this Rambaldi business. But more than that, there was this other baggage that was majorly weighing me down. I was off my game, and Weiss knew I had to pull it together for Sydney's sake.  
  
"There's all these coincidences, you know? Like the green eyes….."  
  
"Didn't your father have green eyes?" Weiss loved to pore over family pictures and was heavily into genealogy.  
  
"Not like mine. And then there's this gift…..the way I get feelings about things…."  
  
"Do you really get feelings, or is that Trish's wishful thinking?" Weiss mused.  
  
"Maybe it's both. I don't know, but there have been times when I've felt drawn to things for no reason."  
  
"Is that it? Because that's not much to go on." He was right, but I was barely getting started.  
  
I took a deep breath and let it all out in a rapid flow. "There's the mannerisms and the art and well, there's that guy in the picture."  
  
"Art?" Weiss never missed a trick.  
  
"Well, yeah, we both paint. And I guess….I mean, I know I'm really good at it," I admitted shyly.  
  
"That's cool, but you know, it proves nothing."  
  
"How so?" I felt my fear evaporate when it was clear that my art was no big deal to Weiss.  
  
"You could have inherited all that stuff from Marie."  
  
"I suppose, but how do you explain the guy in the picture?"  
  
"I can't. But I think you're making too much of this. For all you know, this guy's some long lost relative that fell out of favor with the family. Trust me, it happens all the time."  
  
"I wish I could believe that."  
  
"What, you don't like my theory? OK, here's another one. Maybe Marie had a fling with this guy and tried to cover it up." Weiss was really pushing his luck.  
  
"Are you kidding? My mother would never do that." My mother still wore white gloves when she went out and never left the house without a hat. Emily Post could learn from my mother.  
  
"Maybe not. So what about Trish?"  
  
I had skated around her name, hoping it wouldn't come to this, but what other conclusion could I make? With a sigh, I said, "When I was small, the other kids used to tease me. They said I was adopted, because I looked nothing like my parents."  
  
"Kids say stupid things."  
  
"But they were right. I would look in the mirror and wonder what was wrong with me, and then I wondered why I was left-handed when both of them were right-handed and why I was good at sports and music and art and neither of them had any talent in those areas."  
  
"Look, man, I know this is eating at you, but you gotta be realistic. I look and act just like my Uncle Ben. Genes can skip generations…."  
  
"She's my mother." The more I thought about it, the more I knew I was right. It all fit. The way she had left home at fifteen, not because of a divorce, but because she had disgraced herself. The things she had said about giving up her dreams. The way my family acted whenever her name was mentioned or she made a rare appearance at one of our family gatherings. The way she had avoided me all these years, or was it the other way around?  
  
"So what are you going to do about it?" Weiss asked quietly  
  
"I don't know." And that was the last thing I said before heading off to bed.  
  
*******  
  
My dreams are like something out of a Clive Cussler novel. It always starts with me on some dangerous mission, bare-chested and sweaty, fighting off the evil bad dudes with my bare hands. Wining and dining my way through Europe with a beautiful woman on my arm. The difference is, that woman is always Sydney instead of some faceless bimbo and I always rescue her in the end instead of her saving my sorry ass. No one knows about my collection of Cussler novels or the way I imprint myself on his Dirk Pitt character, and if I have my way, no one ever will. Weiss would laugh me out of the office and Sydney would string me up.  
  
Unfortunately, sleep and swashbuckling dreams evaded me for hours. I tried everything: counting sheep, watching late night TV, and reading passages from the Gideon bible. Desperation drove me to the Ambien bottle in my luggage which was reserved for just such occasions. After one of those babies, I am usually out cold like a corpse in a coffin. No dreams. No pain. Nothing. This time was different. While Weiss raised the rafters with his happy snores, I tossed and turned, growing increasingly desperate as the night wore on.  
  
I didn't realize I had nodded off until I awoke in a cold panic, shaking and shuddering from the nightmare that was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Most dreams have shadowy figures or unknown people and involve classic anxiety patterns where you search for something you never find or you go around in circles. Sometimes the object of your fantasies appears to be someone else and just when you think you have it figured out, a scene changes. But this nightmare was more like one of those vivid dreams where you swear you did something and when you wake up, reality seems surreal.  
  
This dream bloomed on the sidewalk outside FBI headquarters. It was one of those impossibly perfect spring days where the light was soft and velvety and the breeze carried scents of all that was good about the world. Trish and Weiss flanked me and we watched Sydney walk toward a van, freed from her shackles and released from custody. As she got in, Trish turned to me with a warm smile, her eyes dancing along with the red light that hopped across her forehead before centering itself, lethal in the way that concentrated light burns ants to a crisp. Sudden knowledge flooded me, but I was too late. A perfectly formed circle blossomed above the bridge of her nose and she fell heavily to the ground, her cheap glass beads scattering in every direction. Eric whirled around and turned white, crying out and running to her side while I stood there in shock, unable to fathom that my aunt was dead from a sniper's rifle. I looked up and saw the van pull away with Sydney's face and hands pressed to the back window, unable to help the woman who had saved her life. Someone gripped my arm and nearly sent me into orbit, and when I turned to face them, I saw Weiss's concerned face looming over me, his dark eyes puffy with sleep.  
  
"What? What is it? What happened?" I cried, disoriented and nearly out of my mind with terror.  
  
"Take it easy, Michael. It's just a dream." He sat down in the chair near my bed and gave me time to compose myself.  
  
I took some deep breaths and scrubbed my fingers through my hair. "How much noise did I make?" I asked.  
  
Weiss smiled tiredly. "Enough to wake the dead."  
  
His eerie choice of words brought my head up sharply. "That's not funny!"  
  
He flinched at my harsh tone and held up his hands in surrender. "What's got you so bent?"  
  
I rubbed my eyes and let the dream's script roll before my eyes. "All of us were there at the FBI building. You, me, and Trish. We watched Sydney come out and then…..then I turned to my aunt and they shot….they killed her."  
  
"Who shot her?" Eric was getting spooked by my behavior.  
  
"I don't know….a sniper or something." That red dot mocked me and it seemed to burn itself into my retinas.  
  
"Look, I know how some dreams are, but…."  
  
God bless him for trying to help me through this. "This was real, Eric. It wasn't like any dream I've ever had. If I had to use one word to describe it, I'd call it a vision….maybe of the future."  
  
"Sure it isn't the power of suggestion? She says you have a gift, and bam, all of a sudden you're seeing the future?"  
  
"I know how it sounds." It sounded crazy, but I was perfectly sane. If it had happened a few days ago, I would have chalked it up to all that good wine I had imbibed last night.  
  
"Even if what you saw was possible, why would anyone want to hurt Trish?" Eric asked.  
  
"Depending on what we find out tomorrow, there could be any number of people who want to silence her."  
  
"So we'll make sure that doesn't happen." Weiss's eyes were resolute and I knew he'd stand behind me.  
  
"You think we can count on Jack Bristow to back us up?" The man was an enigma, but I think we could trust him.  
  
"Yeah. He's solid."  
  
I checked the time and groaned. "We better run if we want to make the meeting on time." This meeting was the final summation of Sydney's testimony and a decision would be made on her fate. As I claimed the first shower and let the hot water pour over me, the rage I had suppressed for so long started boiling over, and by the time we made it to the car, I was ready to rip someone a new asshole. We arrived at my aunt's house, silent and ready to rock and roll.  
  
****** 


	12. Chapter Twelve

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter 12  
  
Trish was waiting at her front gate, quiet and dignified in her navy blue suit and black pumps. Before she got in the car, she handed me a package.  
  
"What's this for?" I asked, feeling yesterday's dread return in full force.  
  
"His name was Jean Michel LaFleur. I met him at the Olympics in Grenoble, France."  
  
1968. The year of my birth. If I counted backward to February, 1968, the dates all fit. "I see."  
  
"No, you don't see, but we don't have time for this now." She was right; we had to go help Sydney.  
  
"Will there ever be time?" I asked carefully.  
  
"I cannot say, but the answers lie in your hands." She nodded at the package and ended the conversation by getting into the front seat and greeting Eric. With a grimace, I squished into the seat behind her and spent the rest of ride stewing over my parentage and worrying about Sydney.  
  
*****  
  
Jack Bristow greeted us at the front entrance and handed an ID badge to Trish. "Devlin briefed me on our….guest," he said, pulling me to one side for a moment. "Do you really think she can help us?"  
  
"We have no other options." I saw his skepticism, and I didn't blame him. Calling on my aunt was certainly not my first choice, but I was desperate to help Syd and prove that this prophecy was a sham.  
  
He nodded. "We better get moving. They've already convened in Room 363A and we don't have much time to waste."  
  
"What, we're not on the guest list?" Weiss quipped as he played with his yo- yo.  
  
Jack actually smiled and started walking through the metal detectors, expecting us to follow. Eric and Trish had their heads together and they meandered slowly up the stairs. I couldn't make out their words, but they seemed to be conspiring about something. Maybe it was better if I didn't know what they were planning. We passed a coffee cart and Weiss held up his hand. "Hey, do you guys mind if we bring some coffee? I had a really rough night last night."  
  
We waited while Trish and Eric loaded up a cardboard flat with half a dozen coffees and then returned to our regularly scheduled prowl down the corridor. I saw Trish fidgeting with her necklace and wondered what was so important about those damned beads. There was nothing even remotely remarkable about them and for someone who had such good taste, it seemed kind of strange that she'd latched onto them.  
  
After endless hallways and several trips on various banks of elevators, we arrived at our destination. Jack said, "The element of surprise is on our side, so we have to act quickly. I expect the journal to be displayed on the table, so one of you has to find page 47 and get it to Trish."  
  
I stepped in front of Jack and cautioned, "I have reason to believe that someone may try to harm my aunt."  
  
His eyes flashed. "I understand. Don't worry about it."  
  
How could I not worry about it after that dream? A number of replies came to mind, but I decided to save my ire for someone who deserved it. "Let's do it."  
  
"I'll go in first," Jack said, his tone brooking no argument.  
  
****  
  
Two no-neck security types guarded the door and glared at us through their piggy little eyes. They grunted when Jack flashed his badge and one of them demanded to see his authorization. That was the point where Haladki decided to show his ugly mug and that was also the point where I had to restrain my fist from punching his lights out. God, how I hated him. I didn't care about his FBI connections. That didn't excuse his behavior toward me or Syd. What had happened to loyalty among colleagues? I wouldn't want him at my back in any fight, because I didn't trust the slimy little weasel.  
  
Haladki looked annoyed at seeing me, but his eyes bugged out when he saw Trish. "Civilians aren't allowed in here. This is a closed meeting."  
  
"Devlin signed the paperwork." I thrust it under his nose and he backed off a little when he saw the signature.  
  
"Well, you're too late," Haladki said smugly. "They've decided to put her away for life."  
  
The security dudes crossed their arms and one of them spoke quietly into his headset. I was sure they were calling for backup and I remembered Jack's warning. "We've got to hurry."  
  
"Maybe this will convince them." Jack performed a sleight of hand and a gun appeared in his hand. How he had gotten it past the metal detectors was a mystery, because guns weren't allowed on this level. He grabbed Haladki by the collar and wrapped his arm around his neck. With the gun pointed at Haladki's temple, he said ominously, "Now you let us in, or I'll blow his head off."  
  
Haladki's teeth were chattering and I saw the sweat beading on his brow. I couldn't muster any sympathy for the little toad, because he'd caused me nothing but misery. Haladki ordered, "Do what he says."  
  
The guards' beefy arms parted like the Red Sea and they stepped aside. I saw Eric and Trish exchange smiles before disappearing into the conference room ahead of us.  
  
************  
  
There were about twelve people huddled around a long square conference table. I saw Carson Evans and her cigarette smoking minion, Dr. Waterson at the far end. Several other faceless DSR goons and FBI suits took up the remaining seats, and Haladki was the sole representative from the Agency. Sydney was nowhere in sight and was not even allowed to hear her own fate or offer her own defense. What kind of justice was that? I let my eyes scan further and I saw Rambaldi's journal scattered across the table.  
  
"You have no business in here. And what is that woman…..?" Carson Evan's strident voice faltered as she recognized Trish and I saw her gulp with real fear.  
  
Trish smiled as the other woman quaked in her boots, and she moved forward confidently with the tray of coffee still balanced precariously in her tiny hands. Right at that moment, Eric's yo-yo snaked out and hit the tray with deadly precision. The coffees went flying and Trish staggered against the conference table with one hand against her throat. As she got her bearings, she inadvertently pulled on her beads and the string broke, shooting the tiny spheres across the table like billiard balls. It all happened in a fraction of a second, and as coffee spread its murky fingers across the table, I heard someone shriek in agony. Haladki had been hit by flying java and he jumped to his feet and started pogoing to some imaginary tune. To add insult to injury, one of the beads bounced off the back of his chair and launched itself at his eye like a deadly missile. He was totally ignored in the rush to save Rambaldi's journal from the clutches of coffee death and I saw Weiss move at top speed to the end of the table and with a gracefully executed maneuver, he scooped up Page 47 and delivered it to Trish before anyone could move against them.  
  
Trish's reaction was almost immediate. She swayed and I caught her arm in mine and set her down in one of the empty chairs. Her fingers skated across the page and she seemed to memorize every detail. I saw her eyes glaze over and her mouth move, whispering the words to some secret script. Then the motion of her hands stopped and she looked at me, clear-eyed and ready to offer her opinion. With a small smile, she said softly, "The page is a fake."  
  
Those were the last words I expected to hear. "That's not possible. I mean, the journal has been carbon-dated and we've verified that it's five centuries old."  
  
Carson Evans had managed to overcome her fear and I saw her standing nearby, catching every word out of Trish's mouth. She would have moved closer if Jack hadn't warned her off with his gun. I nudged Trish, warning her that she was being monitored. She looked at Dr. Evans and her smile widened. Speaking louder for the benefit of her audience, she exclaimed, "I don't care what your tests say. Someone is pulling your strings and making you all dance to his tune."  
  
"He?" I questioned.  
  
Her eyes closed in reflection. "I get the impressions of many people. The girl…Sydney, taking it off the boat. Other people planting this page among the other journal pages….a woman with dark hair…..older, maybe my age…..and then this man. There is something about the Alliance….and SD-4. Does that mean anything to you?"  
  
Those words electrified me and a name came to mind. "Did you pick up any names?"  
  
"There is Laura…." Her eyes lifted to Jack Bristow and I saw the sympathy on her face. "She is alive."  
  
I felt the cold dread returning. It had been bad enough finding out that Sydney's mom killed my dad, but that news paled by comparison to this new information. I watched Jack closely and saw that he didn't seem at all surprised by this revelation. He asked, "Anyone else?"  
  
"There are two. Emile Toscana…" That was the name I had been waiting for, but when she continued, I was stunned by what I heard. "The other name is…..H-Hlad…key."  
  
Although she stammered, the words came out clearly enough. Everyone came to attention and stared at Haladki. He was still cleaning himself off and hadn't been following the discussion. I shoved back my chair and advanced on him threateningly. "Care to explain this?"  
  
"Explain what?" Haladki looked up at me miserably and seemed to shrink when he saw the look in my eyes. I was this close to stomping him into the ground and only Weiss's restraining arm held me back.  
  
"Explain your association with Toscana and Laura Bristow," I growled with my hands balled into fists.  
  
He looked at me like I had lost my mind and then glanced around the table for support. When none was forthcoming, he stammered, "You're c-crazy. How can you possibly believe what this….flaky woman has to say? She's making it up."  
  
"Oh, really? Then explain how she knows this information. How could she possibly know about Laura Bristow or the Alliance? And how could she know your name when she's never met you," I questioned flatly, reining in my temper and seeing that my words were having an effect.  
  
"Because you're trying to set me up. Everyone knows you have a grudge against me….." His eyes pleaded with Dr. Evans but even she was turning away from him, not caring to be associated with a traitor.  
  
Dr. Evans ordered, "Take him away."  
  
The two security grunts grabbed Haladki's arms and hauled him away with his heels dragging. He screeched, "Wait, you can't do this to me. Vaughn is a lunatic….."  
  
His screams faded away and the room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Trish touched some other pages and her features shifted. "Interesting. These other pages are genuine. I do not sense any unusual vibrations. Only….the face of an old man as he writes and draws."  
  
"So you think that one of Toscana's people planted this page, knowing that it would fall into Sydney's possession?" Jack asked Trish, apparently accepting that her abilities were the real deal.  
  
"Yes," she answered simply. "And I get the sense that your Laura and Haladki are working with him to take down the Alliance."  
  
Jack chewed on that information for a bit. "It makes sense. Most of that information could have been added as the events happened. Haladki would have access to all this information and he could have fed it to them."  
  
Dr. Evans interjected, "That's true, but how do you explain the physical matches?"  
  
"They're probably based on Laura's profile. Sydney is like her in every way….and resembles her closely. I believe that the sketch is Laura, not Sydney."  
  
"Why do this?" I asked, not understanding the extent of Laura's treachery. Wasn't it enough that she was a murderer? Why did she have to discredit her own daughter?  
  
"She's KGB," Weiss commented as he tucked his lethal yo-yo into his pocket. "And she hasn't changed her stripes. K-Directorate would love to take down the Alliance, and what better way than weakening its assets? Starting with Sydney and SD-6."  
  
I suddenly noticed that Trish wasn't looking so well. Her head was in her hands and she was physically disconnected from the conversation. "Are you OK?"  
  
"Please take me out of here. I need to rest for awhile." Weiss helped her to her feet and led her out of the room. I made him promise to let me know when Trish was up to receiving visitors because I wanted her to meet Sydney.  
  
One of the faceless dorks from the FBI Tribunal decided to butt in. "Well, Agent Vaughn, this certainly changes things for Agent Bristow. Of course, we need to investigate this new information, but it should only be a formality."  
  
"How long?" I had to know when they'd release her and planned on being first in line when she walked through the door as a free woman.  
  
The DSR people looked between themselves and Evans finally said, "We have no reason to hold her. Our business is done here."  
  
I felt enormous relief and a sense of vindication that Haladki was out of business. My only regret was that I hadn't gotten the chance to kick his ass and vent my anger on him. There was one other outlet for all this pent up emotion, and maybe I'd get a chance to use it when I saw Sydney. As for Carson Evans, if I ever crossed paths with her again, I'd be sure to sic Trish the pit bull on her. My mind went on to wonder about Laura Bristow's motives. Why would she do this to her own daughter? Was she really that evil?  
  
Jack seemed to read my mind. "I'd like to be the one to tell Sydney about her mother."  
  
I nodded. He deserved that much at least, especially after the part I'd played in forcing him to tell Syd the truth about Laura's affiliation with the KGB. "Sure."  
  
"I'm going to see her now. I'll let you know when you can visit."  
  
*****  
  
An hour ticked by and I sat alone in the conference room with my thoughts whirling in my head. Sydney was only a few rooms away and I could almost see her standing before me with the wind in her hair, her eyes shining from some indefinable emotion. Then I imagined us looking at a Malibu sunset with our hands interlocked, sitting on a beach blanket with a bottle of wine and a picnic basket. Then I started leaning toward her and her breath stirred the hair that flopped on my forehead as my mouth hovered over hers. So lightly did the vision touch me that I didn't realize what it was until it left me. A voice intruded on my thoughts and I looked up to see Eric.  
  
"How's Trish doing?" I asked, slightly pissed that he had interrupted my fantasy.  
  
"She's tired, but she's ready to see you."  
  
I followed him to a small anteroom off the main corridor and saw Trish half reclined on an uncomfortable looking couch. Her shoes were off and her feet were propped up on a pillow and she flashed me a wan smile. "Are you OK?" I asked.  
  
"I'll live." I hoped that was true. She noticed my expression and commented, "Maybe I should be asking how you're doing."  
  
"I'm fine," I answered too quickly and knew I wasn't fooling her.  
  
"What's troubling you?" I saw her grimace in pain and helped her to a sitting position.  
  
I wasn't used to baring my soul and I guessed it wasn't one of her high points either. "I had a dream last night. Someone shot you."  
  
"Now why would they want to do that?" Trish tried making a joke but the smile never reached her eyes.  
  
"Because maybe they see you as a threat."  
  
She considered my answer for a moment. "You had a vision, didn't you?"  
  
"If you want to call it that."  
  
"Visions are seldom what they seem. Perhaps you have an unconscious desire to shoot me yourself for abandoning you," Trish said with a small smile.  
  
My nightmare came back to me and I remembered her beads breaking in the conference room instead of outside. I hope she was right about this, because I had lost enough people in my life. "Don't be ridiculous." I tried to keep my tone even and neutral, but a slight tremor betrayed my feelings.  
  
"Michael, I am sorry for any pain I may have caused you. For seeing what happened to Sharon all those years ago…." I reared back from her in surprise and got to my feet. Her voice trailed after me. "I never forget my visions and I'll never forgive myself for hurting you the way I did."  
  
I sensed her sincerity and stopped my pacing. "I never got over her until…"  
  
"You met Sydney," she finished. "And now I want to meet this girl that means so much to you."  
  
I smiled tentatively and it felt good on my face. "Let me have a few minutes with her and then I'll come get you."  
  
Trish nodded wearily, her head falling to her chest in exhaustion. I watched her for a few seconds before making my way out of the room. Before the door clicked to a close, I was thrown against a wall by someone tearing down the hall. A terrified face with bulbous eyes and a scrap of steel wool hair. Haladki. The bastard had escaped from confinement. He threw a glance over his shoulder and squealed when he saw me coming after him. I was bigger and faster than him and as he rounded the corner to the stairwell, I grabbed his belt and slammed him against the wall.  
  
His head smacked against the cement and he screamed in agony, but that was nothing compared to the damage I was about to do to him. "You fucking traitor. How could you do it? How could you betray our country?"  
  
All my anger against Laura Bristow came pouring out of me and telegraphed itself into my fists as I slammed his head repeatedly against the wall. Then my fists started in on his face, breaking his nose and cutting his lip. Blood gushed from his nostrils and splattered on my shirt. I was so enraged that I didn't notice him reach into his pocket. He suddenly zapped me with a taser and I felt every muscle in my body freeze up. I fell to my knees and Haladki started kicking me. Nothing like fighting against a defenseless man. Ribs were cracking and breaking as he erupted in fury and cursed at me in some Eastern European language. He would have continued if Weiss hadn't chosen that moment to appear in the doorway.  
  
The two of them scuffled and it didn't take long for Eric to completely overtake Haladki and send him flying down the stairs. Bones crunched as he collapsed in an unconscious heap on the lower landing. "Vaughn, are you OK?"  
  
I laughed through rubbery lips. "I've had better days."  
  
"C'mon, let me help you up." Weiss put one arm under my armpit and hoisted me tomy feet. "What did he hit you with?"  
  
"A t-taser." My tongue was still numb and I wondered if it was some kind of advanced weapon.  
  
The security goons showed up as we struggled through the doorway and Weiss pointed down the stairs. "You can pick up your trash down there."  
  
We made it to the men's room and Weiss wet some paper towels and handed them to me. "You look like shit."  
  
Another painful laugh made its way out of me. "I feel even better."  
  
Eric snickered. "Great way to impress her."  
  
"Is she ready to see me?" I didn't care how bad I looked. All I wanted was to see Sydney and make sure she was OK.  
  
"Yeah, but Jack said she's pretty shaken up over her mother."  
  
"I'll keep it brief."  
  
As I started shambling across the tiled floor, he caught my arm and said, "You love her, don't you?"  
  
I opened my mouth to lie like I always did, but my lips weren't working. "Yeah."  
  
"Don't wait too long to tell her." He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder before disappearing out the door with a cheerful whistle, leaving me to my own devices. Sydney's face swam before me and drew me like a beacon. Forgetting my pain, I burst through the bathroom door and walked stiffly to where she waited at the far end of the corridor.  
  
****** 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.  
  
******  
  
Chapter Thirteen  
  
"Vaughn, what did they do to you?" were the first words out of her mouth. Typical Syd. Worrying about me instead of herself. When I got close enough, I saw that her eyes were swollen from crying and I guessed that her reunion with Jack hadn't been a happy one.  
  
"Umm….someone zapped me with a taser and I guess my face got a little messed up when I fell down." Haladki's name almost slipped out of my mouth and I caught myself in time. Sydney had enough reminders of her mother's perfidy and she certainly didn't need me bringing up one of Laura's comrades.  
  
Sydney winced in sympathy. "Ouch. Want some of my foundation cream?" she asked wryly.  
  
"No thanks. Is there some place we could talk privately?" I looked at the door behind her.  
  
Syd rubbed at her wrists and I saw the marks left by her shackles. "Anywhere but in there."  
  
She grabbed my hand and propelled me along the corridor to a richly appointed office. "This is A.D. Dennison's office. He said I could use it for as long as I needed."  
  
Our hands were still joined and I drew her closer to me. "I've been so worried."  
  
"I can tell," Syd answered softly, looking at my frown lines with a slight curve to her lips. Then her face grew serious and she added, "My father told me about Trish and he said this was all your doing. Thank you…Michael."  
  
The impact of hearing my name from her lips almost made me gasp involuntarily. Heat rushed through my body when I saw how she was looking at me. "You're welcome," I answered huskily.  
  
"I owe my life to both of you." Her fingers clenched mine whitely and I broke her grip when I opened my arms to hug her. Sydney rushed at me and nearly knocked me onto the couch as she embraced me with every fiber of her being. My gasp was more from the shock of feeling her against me than the ache of my cracked ribs.  
  
This hug was dramatically different from our last awkward clench in the warehouse. Instead of standing like two mannequins, our bodies were molded together and I felt her hips against mine and marveled at how perfectly we matched. Her dark hair was still slightly damp from the shower and I inhaled her essence as I buried my face in her neck. That was all it took to remind her that we weren't just Sydney and Michael, we were Agents Vaughn and Bristow, and we had no right to the intimacies that other people took for granted. With a heavy sigh, she dropped her arms and moved away from me. "Is your aunt still here? I'd like to meet her."  
  
The heat from her body still lingered and I felt her loss like a stabbing wound in my gut. It was all I could do to focus on business as usual. "Sure. She's down the hall resting."  
  
******  
  
Trish had managed to find a cigarette in a non-smoking building and she was pacing restlessly when we made our entrance. With a huge smile, she dropped the butt in a nearby coffee cup and moved to meet us.  
  
"Sydney, it's a pleasure to finally meet you," she said in her flowery accent, and I could see that she put Syd immediately at ease. Trish encased Sydney's hands between hers like a sandwich and I knew she was reading her. It happened so quickly that I didn't have time to intervene.  
  
"Same here." Syd finally managed to extricate her fingers from Trish's surprisingly strong grip and she stared at Trish's deeply cut dimples before flashing me an unreadable glance. "Trish, words alone cannot convey my thanks. You saved my life in there…."  
  
Trish waved her hand. "It was nothing. It's what I do, you know?"  
  
"OK." But it was clear that Sydney didn't get it. "If there's anything I can do for you….if there's anything you need…."  
  
"There is one thing you can do for me." Trish leaned forward and whispered something in Sydney's ear. With an abrupt motion, Syd straightened up and I wondered at the red blush staining her face.  
  
"I'll….keep that in mind," she replied, looking away from me pointedly and sighing with relief when the door opened and our escort arrived to take us out of here.  
  
I looked at Trish and hissed, "What did you say to her?"  
  
Trish seemed particularly pleased with herself. "You'll find out soon enough."  
  
*****  
  
Sydney fell into step beside me with a bemused expression. "I didn't realize that your aunt was so…."  
  
"Weird?" I jested.  
  
Sydney grinned. "I was about to say beautiful. She really looks like you, huh?"  
  
That was a backhanded compliment if I've ever heard one. "I guess."  
  
She picked right up on the odd tremor in my voice. "Anything you want to talk about?"  
  
"Later. Not here," I murmured, touching her arm and pulling her aside for a moment. "When do you report back?"  
  
Sydney frowned at the mention of SD-6. "In a week."  
  
"That long? How did your father pull that off?"  
  
"With some fast talking." She looked straight at me and said, "Look, what happened back there…."  
  
Now it was my turn to blush. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…. "  
  
Her chocolate eyes were filled with some undefined emotion that I wasn't ready to analyze. "I'm glad you did."  
  
I'm sure I was turning three shades of red by this time and I stammered, "W- we better catch up with the others."  
  
"Of course." I didn't imagine the disappointment in her voice and I let myself get lost in her eyes for a second, letting her see the feelings I've hidden for so long before I turned and made my way toward the elevator.  
  
******  
  
The sun almost blinded me when I emerged from the dark tunnels of the FBI building. The soft breeze caressed my cheek and carried the smell of flower blossoms bursting from their tightly coiled buds. The scent of freshly turned earth and bark mulch. My friends standing on the steps. Sydney moving toward them. My nightmare came back to me and gave me the impetus to dash down the stairs. I hauled myself up short and stopped next to Weiss, my breath streaming from my nostrils like a horse on a very cold day.  
  
"Where's the fire?" Eric quipped lightly.  
  
Trish turned to face me and that's when I saw the laser sight dance across her cheekbones. Weiss saw it at the same time and he launched himself at her and knocked her back into the flower bed. I expected to hear the cough of a silencer but then things started to play out differently. Sydney rushed over to us and was bending over to help Trish up when I saw the red dot return and focus itself on the back of her skull. "Get down," I yelled, and with the training and instinct of a paramilitary expert, Sydney flung herself down next to Weiss at the very moment that a bullet sank into the tree trunk next to her. I keyed my cell phone and called for back-up, and not a minute passed before Security came to our rescue. They cordoned off the area, but it was too late; the sniper had escaped.  
  
Weiss and Sydney helped Trish to her feet and I saw her good humor restore itself quickly. I offered her my arm and she walked for awhile with me. "See what I mean about visions?" Trish said as we stopped to look at a fountain.  
  
I nodded my head and watched the light play on the water, forming rainbows from the dazzling sunlight. "I'm just glad I was here."  
  
"So am I. Thank you, Michael." Her tone was oddly formal and it hurt to see her distancing herself from me. But I guess she expected rejection, for that was all that life had ever dealt her when it came to our family.  
  
"No, thank you," I said emphatically, taking her hands in mine and letting the gratitude shine from my eyes.  
  
"Is this your last day here?" Trish asked as I looked over to where Sydney waited.  
  
"We're flying out tonight." Sydney was taking an earlier flight and I knew she had to get going.  
  
"Why don't you and Eric stop by before you leave?" Trish suggested, noticing that I was chomping at the bit.  
  
"OK, we will. Thanks again, Trish." I met Eric's eyes and he quickly moved over to entertain Trish while I said good-bye to Syd.  
  
Sydney saw how worried I was. "I can take care of myself."  
  
That was true, but I still wanted to protect her. Maybe it was the Dirk Pitt in me, or maybe it was just Michael worrying about Sydney. "I'm more worried about the other guy," I joked, trying to make light of the situation.  
  
She smiled. "So do you think this was someone from SD-4?"  
  
"Probably. My guess is they had someone waiting, just in case they let you go."  
  
The van driver coughed and pointed to his watch.  
  
"So this is it, I guess," she said sadly.  
  
"Yeah." I still couldn't believe she was free, that this nightmare was finally over and we could return to the daily business of catching the bad guys and wearing down the foundation of SD-6.  
  
"I'll see you in LA." Sydney started to turn and I halted her with my hand.  
  
"Watch your back," I cautioned, wishing I could go with her.  
  
"I will. Thanks." Her voice was soft and sweet and as she got into the van, she turned and waved at all of us before disappearing inside. Weiss and Trish moved up beside me and we all watched as the van moved away from the curb and joined the line of traffic.  
  
****** 


	14. Epilogue I

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.  
  
*****  
  
Epilogue I  
  
"It's been quite a ride," Eric said as we pulled up in front of Trish's townhouse. Tilda was nowhere to be seen. "Hey, maybe she forgot about us."  
  
"Or maybe the truck finally bit the dust," I cracked as we got out. A moment later, I heard the screen door slap shut as Trish came out in shorts and a T-shirt, her hair shoved under a painter's cap. She looked more like my kid sister than my mother. God, my mother would never understand. Marie and Bill had raised me, and as far as I was concerned, they were my parents. So where did that leave Trish? What did I call her? I smiled at her and her answering smile was tinged with that same aura of sadness I had noticed yesterday.  
  
"Glad you could make it. Come on back and have a tall one before you leave." It sounded more like an order than a suggestion, and for a second, she sounded exactly like Marie. I almost laughed at the similarity, because Trish would take my head off if I even suggested that she had something in common with her oldest sister.  
  
She set us up with Sam Adams and I noticed the blank wall over her fireplace. "What happened to that picture of the farmhouse?"  
  
Trish walked over to a carefully wrapped parcel and handed it to me. "What's this about?" I asked with a frown.  
  
"I am giving it to you."  
  
"Why?" I honestly wanted to know. Trying to buy my affections at this late date was kind of pointless and besides, it was beneath her.  
  
"Because I saw the way you looked at it….it touched something in you which no longer touches me. It belongs with you."  
  
The selfish part of me wanted it desperately, wanted to see it hanging on my wall where I could revel in its fabulous use of color and perspective. An even deeper desire wanted something that belonged to my real mother. "I'd be honored. Thank you."  
  
Trish looked immensely relieved and flashed her dimples at us. "Good."  
  
"So what happened to your truck?" Eric asked idly.  
  
"My neighbor had it towed because it was blocking the sidewalk. So I say, good riddance. Thirty years is long enough, don't you think?"  
  
"Does this mean you're going to drive the Porsche?" Eric desperately wanted a ride.  
  
"No, one of you is going to drive it out of here."  
  
Weiss couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Is she saying what I think she's saying?"  
  
Trish ignored Eric and pinned me to my seat with her emerald eyes. She held out her hand and said, "Give me your coin, Michel."  
  
The coin nestled inside my palm where I gripped it like a good luck charm. "What are you talking about?"  
  
Trish rolled her eyes and rattled off something in colloquial French about men who played dumb. "The coin if you please."  
  
I let my fingers uncurl and she snatched it out of my hand with a mischievous grin.  
  
"Tonight is your lucky night. One of you will walk out of here with the keys and title to my Porsche."  
  
"You really are insane." Certifiably so. "You can't just give away a car."  
  
She looked at me with a challenge in her eyes. "Call it. Heads or tails."  
  
"Trish, you can't do this. This car is special to you…." I tried protesting but I saw that she had made up her mind.  
  
"Shall I let Eric go first?" Her mouth quirked into a half smile and I turned away, not needing the reminder that we were so much alike.  
  
Weiss was practically jumping up and down with excitement, because he knew the coin would come out tails, just like it always did. "Tails!" he shouted.  
  
"Heads," I said flatly, wondering what the point of this exercise was. Why didn't she just give the car to Eric and be done with it?  
  
Trish's eyes filled with pity and I liked that even less than the smile. "Why don't you have a little faith, Michel?"  
  
"In what, a coin toss?" I countered shortly. "We both know how this will come out."  
  
"Do we?" She raised an eyebrow. "Maybe your luck is changing."  
  
And with that, she tossed the coin high in the air and we watched its silver catch the lamplight as it rotated end over end and landed in her outstretched fingers. When she opened her hand, I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath until I saw the result. Heads. It was impossible. It must be a trick of the light. But no, she handed the coin back to me and it was face up. "You've won."  
  
I could see Eric's disappointment, but I also saw that he was happy for me. "Congratulations," he said without any hard feelings.  
  
I stared down at the coin and shook my head. "This has never happened before. Never."  
  
"You have seen the impossible and still you do not accept it?" Trish shook her head at my foolishness.  
  
"What am I supposed to do with a car like this?" Self-respecting agents did not drive Porsches. They drove boring cars like the one that told everyone what I was. G-man. Shiny shoes. Creased trousers. Tie knotted correctly. No missing buttons. I never dreamed about what I couldn't have, so I didn't bother poring over issues of Car and Driver and saving for that rainy day.  
  
Trish surprised me by touching my cheek with her hand for a second. "Go after her," she said softly, her words meant only for me.  
  
I opened my mouth to protest and she stopped me by handing me an envelope. "Have the ride of your life and oh…." She reached over to the counter and added the handicapped plate to the pile. "Don't forget this."  
  
I tried giving it back and she shook her head. "Her plane leaves soon, so you must be very quick."  
  
There was a tiny part of me that had always wanted to let loose and do something extreme. I ignored my conscience and grabbed the painting off the table and dashed for the car. Weiss sprinted out behind me and unloaded my luggage from the rental car. "You're as crazy as she is. You know that, don't you?"  
  
"And I'll probably regret this," I said as I got behind the wheel. "But if I don't try, then I'll never know if it might have worked out."  
  
"Good luck."  
  
I smiled and lifted my fingers in a salute as I backed the car down the driveway and tore off with a squeal of tires.  
  
*****  
  
Conclusion is coming tomorrow. 


	15. Epilogue II

Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.  
  
****  
  
Epilogue II  
  
I ran three red lights and broke a land speed record on my way to Dulles. The irony of racing to an airport that is named for a former CIA director is not lost on me. Why else are all our flights routed through here and not Reagan National?  
  
The car purred under my hands and handled like a dream. OK, maybe it's a bad idea to think about dreams right now. I mean, after what I've been through in the past 24 hours, the last thing I wanted to think about were visions or nightmares. And then there was The Sydney Factor….gee, it sounds almost like a Robert Ludlum novel. The Sydney Factor, starring Michael Vaughn. I liked the sound of that, but I'm not sure she'd want to be my co- star. Despite our earlier encounter and what I hadn't dared say to her, I wasn't at all sure that she'd come with me.  
  
Still, as I skidded around an old man in a hat driving a Lincoln and was cursed out soundly by some pedestrians as I sped up the Departures ramp, I felt a small glimmer of hope. When I slowed down enough to read some signs, I started to think this was a fool's errand. After the 9/11 attacks, they had stepped up airport security by a huge measure, and one of those precautions was not allowing on-curb pickups or drop-offs. Then some long lost thread from a Cussler novel came to mind and I felt my heart skip a beat. With a smile that lurked somewhere between hopeful and smug, I jerked the Porsche to a stop and jumped out of the car. With my CIA ID in hand, I waited as two heavily armed reservists approached me.  
  
"Do you have some business here, sir?" The younger of the two asked politely.  
  
I handed him my ID and watched as they studied me carefully and with more than a hint of suspicion. "I'm trailing a suspect. This person is guilty of treason against the United States and I have reason to believe she is about to hop on a plane."  
  
The ID did the trick, because they folded it up and gave it back to me. "How can we help?"  
  
Wow, this was easier than I thought. "If you could guard my car until I return, then I'd really appreciate it."  
  
I was starting to back toward the sliding doors and felt my feet itching to run the hundred yard dash down the concourse. My obstacle course included the metal detectors and running past a few hundred gates, but I was sure I could handle it.  
  
The more experienced guard still looked at me doubtfully. "We need to verify your story, sir. I have to call my superior officer and he'll have to contact someone from your office."  
  
Thinking quickly, I gave them Eric's name and cell phone number and knew he'd be up to the test. Time was running out and I was growing impatient, but I had to make this look real. In very short order, I got my authorization, which included bypassing the lines at the metal detectors. Balls of Steel. That was me. Weiss would be so proud.  
  
When I got past the first obstacle, I scanned the flight board for Sydney's flight number and saw that she was at the far end of Concourse A. With my track shoes firmly laced, I started loping at my natural jogger's gait until her gate number came into view. The waiting area was thronged with business travelers and tourists, their heads obscured by newspapers or bent over laptops as they tapped away at reports. I saw old people with their grandchildren and happy young couples with their hands entwined, but Sydney was nowhere to be found.  
  
I asked at the counter and was told they'd be boarding in twenty minutes. OK, that gave her a little time to roam around, maybe get a snack, or use the bathroom. I started moving in the opposite direction and spotted the airport bookstore. It was large and stuffed with people buying last minute magazines and paperbacks. As I passed a row of T-shirts and stuffed animals, I almost missed her. I moved a few steps down the aisle and then stopped, because something was tickling at my senses. An awareness of something familiar. A smell, or maybe just instinct, caused me to turn around and there she was. Her slim fingers picked through the fiction section and suddenly pulled out a fat book. Syd scanned its contents and I saw her wrinkle her nose. She turned it over a few more times and read the inside flap and seemed to come to some decision. Without even noticing me staring at her from a few yards away, she turned on her heel and brought the book to the counter.  
  
It told me a few things about her state of mind. She was relaxed when she should have been on her guard, especially after that attempt on her life. Maybe she thought that her 7 day reprieve was a vacation with no one watching. Of course, I knew better, because look at what just happened. I was less than 10 feet away from her and had been clearly interested in her actions, and she hadn't taken the slightest notice of me. It only added to the argument I planned on presenting to her. I could protect her in a way that she couldn't protect herself. Sydney might be a lean, mean fighting machine, but she didn't yet have that edge that came from years in the field, nor did she have eyes in the back of her head. Not only that, but her sweet and trusting nature might be her ultimate downfall.  
  
Protocol taught us to avoid contact in public, to look away from one another, and achieve the objective with a minimum of discussion. But this little outing went way beyond the boundaries of protocol. There were no rules but the ones I made up. So I followed a few paces behind her and enjoyed the swing of her hips with the frank appreciation of your typical horny male. Her jeans and sweater fit so perfectly that every inch and curve of her dancer's body was revealed. I know I shouldn't do this, but I couldn't help myself. And the less time I gave her to argue or even think it through, the better. I had to go with my gut and hope she would do the same. With a burst of speed, I came up behind her and put my arm through hers. Her fighter's reflexes kicked into gear and I felt her start to move against me.  
  
"Don't turn around," I murmured in her ear. "Just act natural."  
  
That stopped her cold. "Vaughn," she answered, her voice slightly shaky. "What are you doing here?"  
  
So it was back to Vaughn. OK, I could deal with that. "Come away with me," I said, feeling the spinning top of emotional instability wend its way through my body and ultimately stabbing my heart.  
  
"What?" Sydney had expected something, but my words weren't at the top of her list of possibilities. "Have you lost your mind?"  
  
"You have 7 days, right?" I asked hopefully.  
  
She nodded as we meandered to one side and out of the line of traffic. "What's this really about?"  
  
I sighed. "You know what it's about."  
  
"But I…." I halted her words and knew heaven was the touch of those lips on my fingers. A long moment passed before I dropped my hand, still feeling the impression of her mouth, branding me for all eternity.  
  
"Think about it, Syd. This might be the only freedom we ever get. Unstructured time. Together. We can talk about anything. Do anything." My words were soft enough, but I could feel my conviction cutting through her defenses. When she looked at me through her lashes, I saw that she wanted the same things. I was not so sure about the love part, but that would come with time. The shadow of her past loomed between us, but I could see Danny fading on the horizon as Sharon had finally evaporated when Sydney walked into my life.  
  
"How?" Good. She was considering it.  
  
"I have a car….a Porsche and…."  
  
"You rented a Porsche?" Her eyebrows lifted in astonishment.  
  
"Actually, it's mine," I replied casually, watching her face carefully for a sign. She tried feigning disinterest, but I saw the sparkle in her eyes before she turned away. So, Sydney Bristow got off on this sexy spy stuff. Hot cars and '007. I wouldn't have figured it, but there was much I didn't know about her.  
  
"Really. Yours. Since when do you have a sports car?" Syd asked in a teasing voice.  
  
"Since about an hour ago when Trish handed me the keys."  
  
"Are you serious?" Her eyes widened and her mouth formed a silent 'wow'.  
  
"So come with me. My car's out on the curb."  
  
"Curb-side service. May I ask how you pulled that off?" In the space of a few minutes, she had migrated from disbelief to a slightly flirtatious mien. I liked the way it deepened those amazing dimples of hers and decided I'd have to work hard to keep that smile on her face.  
  
I wanted to tell the truth, but this was a case where a white lie would better serve both our interests. Sydney needed no reminders about traitors and as for me, I needed her. So with a shrug that I copied from Trish, I said, "I said I was escorting a prisoner and needed their cooperation."  
  
Sydney actually giggled at my audacity. "And they actually believed that a man driving a Porsche was here on important government business and offered to help you out?"  
  
"Well….yeah." I shrugged like it was no big deal.  
  
She was of two minds. Even I, who can be as obtuse as the next guy, could see her indecision. "You know we shouldn't do this. We both know the rules, and we both know the risks involved. If we get caught…."  
  
I took her hand in mine and my eyes implored her to follow down the same crazy path as me. "We'll be wildly, crazy careful."  
  
I saw that she remembered me using those words on that long ago day when she nearly gave the wrong code to SD-6. "OK. Let's do it."  
  
******  
  
We got out of Dulles without a hitch. The car was waiting, expertly guarded by the ardent attentions of one Sgt. Moss. He practically saluted me as a patriot when I handed Sydney into the car and drove off sedately, my face schooled into the official frown of a captor. As soon as I cleared the airport roadway, I kicked the Targa into high gear and headed for the open road.  
  
Sydney was quiet and introspective during the first leg of our trip, and she often looked at me with these curious glances, like she was trying to really figure me out and I guessed her profile of me as the ardent and loyal handler was under revision. We made our first stop in Colorado as the sun peeked over the hills, registered as A. Powers and F. Shagwell in two separate rooms. I paid in cash and arranged to meet her for dinner after some sleep.  
  
Hours passed, but sleep still eluded me and I decided to open the package that Trish had foisted on me. It sat there on the bureau, daring me to open it and spill its guts to the world about my newly found status as a bastard. I mean, maybe I really was a bastard, but I doubt that Alice had had my parentage in mind when she stormed out on me that last time. I untied the twine laces and the wrapping paper fell away from a photo album and what looked like a journal. Tucked under those items was the picture from her wall and a faded hockey jersey. I lifted it up and spread it against myself. French Hockey Team. 1968 Olympics. It was my exact size. I shivered and let the shirt drop to the floor. Goosebumps broke out on my arms. I had a father out there somewhere who was probably unaware that I existed. The journal drew me back to the dresser and its leather binding creaked as I opened it.  
  
It was written in French. Trish's writing. I paged through it slowly and saw a series of expertly rendered sketches. Jean playing soccer. Getting into a fight at the local hockey rink. Posing nude. I swallowed hard and closed the book with a clap of dust. Private thoughts from someone else's life. Did I really want the truth, or was it better to live in the ignorant dark?  
  
Those answers had to wait, because it was time to get dressed and meet Sydney for dinner. Without even thinking about it, I tucked the journal under my arm and slipped it inside my coat on my way out.  
  
*****  
  
Her writing was as expressive and colorful as her personality and the first section of her drama unfolded before my eyes. I felt for the lost, little girl she used to be, overwhelmed by sexual feelings that didn't mesh with what she knew of the world. The charming hockey player that swept her off her feet but didn't return her love, abandoning her once he got what he wanted. Her love for him radiated like a supernova and I found myself blushing at some of her more descriptive prose.  
  
"Hey." Sydney's soft voice slipped under my concentration and brought my head up. She sat across from me and stared at the journal. "What's that?"  
  
"It belonged to Trish."  
  
"Oh." She nodded her head in understanding and smiled at the embarrassment that still lingered on my face. "Your aunt is…"  
  
"She's not," I interrupted.  
  
Sydney looked at me quizzically. "Not what?"  
  
"My aunt." I let the words register and smiled when the waitress came around. We ordered Merlot and I saw the way Sydney looked between me and the journal.  
  
"But she must be. I mean, you look so much….oh." Then she knew. Maybe she had known yesterday when she had seen the resemblance. Sydney is smart about people, adept at peeling back the layers and seeing the real person. I always felt that she knew me far too well and was glad that she didn't use it against me. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Thanks. It's OK…." When the wine arrived, I poured a glass and saw that she doubted my words. "Really it is."  
  
"But with all that's happened…" She stopped and I saw the tears lingering there. We both had baggage, and maybe that's why we complemented each other so well. Maybe we could heal the rift created by our parents.  
  
"I know." The fine dark wine settled on my tongue and I watched her over the rim of my glass, marveling at the way the candle dusted her skin with a fine, flickering light, catching in her eyes and painting her chestnut hair with shimmering skeins that resembled moonbeams. Dark, umber eyes that reminded me of the Madonnas I often saw at the art museum. I could lose my soul in those eyes if I wasn't careful.  
  
Our entrees arrived and it gave us an excuse to talk about something else. Bolstered by fine food and wine, I decided to ask her about something that treaded on dangerous ground. "So the other day," I started as I speared a finely seared piece of filet mignon, "What did Trish say to you when she whispered in your ear?"  
  
Her cheeks were rosy from the wine, so it was hard to tell if a blush was part of the mixture. "Oh. It was nothing."  
  
I knew my aunt's way with words and had seen it for myself in her journal. Even at the tender age of fifteen, her language was salty and coarse and right to the point. Sydney was certainly blunt when she needed to be, but I sensed that the sexual dance made her nervous. Judging from the deer in a headlight look in her eyes, it was far from nothing. "Please tell me," I requested.  
  
In perfectly accented French, Sydney repeated my aunt's words and I ducked my head and wished myself under the table. The litany went on and got increasingly randy and ridiculous. The two of us would have beautiful children, but only if we acted on the passion that everyone can see. There was more in there about fucking like rabbits and her best wishes for successful intercourse.  
  
"She really said that?" I choked, trying not to laugh.  
  
Sydney took a big swallow of wine and nodded. "Yeah."  
  
"Anything else I should know?" I suppressed another bout of hilarity.  
  
She smiled at my question but said nothing. For the rest of the meal, we talked about safe, boring subjects like the stock market and the night passed into peaceful oblivion.  
  
*****  
  
Two more days on the road sent us through New Mexico and Arizona. More funny aliases in anonymous hotel rooms. No more discussions about our parents. I found out that Sydney liked birds and we stopped a few times to watch some raptors flying majestically after their prey. She found some music at one rest stop and we sang along to oldies tapes and shouted along with some death metal anthems.  
  
On one of our last stops before we hit the California border, I saw her sitting on the bench with the book she had bought at the airport. When she saw me, she hid the cover from me and smirked. "Say, Vaughn, do you own a hunting knife?"  
  
"No. Should I?" Where was this going? I handed her a Slusho and sat across from her.  
  
"Do you like diving for treasure?" Now her smile was as wide as the Rio Grande.  
  
I'd never been scuba diving in my life. Not even snorkeling. "Treasure?" I swear my voice squeaked on that last one and she started giggling.  
  
"I have one more question. What would Dirk Pitt do in this situation?" My heart sank. Of all the things I wanted to hide, this was it. How could she…..oh, shit. I knew exactly how she found out. Trish and her damned powers. All those times she touched me in compassion also revealed my deepest secrets. Heat rushed into my face and I knew I was flaming red.  
  
"I don't know," I croaked, totally mortified.  
  
She flashed the book cover at me. Deep Six. With another peal of laughter, she started reading some of the parts about Dirk bedding women and how they threw themselves at him. "Is that how it works?" Syd asked with a straight face. There was something in her voice that was more than amusement. It was almost….sensual. Cold shivers worked their way up my back, totally defying the desert heat that whitened and bleached every surface in this barren country.  
  
"I wouldn't know." I really didn't know. My experience with women was mostly non-existent. Good looks don't count for everything in this world. Oh, they draw the women all right, but the women don't tend to hang around when they discover the ghost of your dead girlfriend hanging over your shoulder. Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt were my escape. Ian Fleming. Robert Ludlum. John LeCarre. I was supposed to be a spy, so you'd think I got a clue by reading about spies from the masters. Hell, my last name even matched the actor from the Man from Uncle.  
  
Sydney took pity on me and dropped the book into her satchel. "Give me the keys."  
  
I obeyed her without question and followed her back to the car. For the first three days, she had let me drive without complaint. But now that we were nearly home, she wanted to take the reins for awhile. Unlike some guys, I had no problem with that. With a whoop, she vaulted over the car door and settled herself behind the wheel. "Want to see how a real woman drives?"  
  
Her words were lost in the trail of rubber she laid down as she made tracks toward the interstate, but her smile burned brighter than the desert sun and I found myself smiling back at her double entendre. Riding shotgun gave me time to study her when I thought she wasn't looking, watching the wind in her hair and loving the grin that grew with each passing mile. Was this something Dirk Pitt would do? Hell, no, he'd commandeer the car and ravish the woman with one hand. This is where I parted ways with Clive Cussler's ridiculous hero. As the road sang under our tires, I read passages to her from the journal and fielded her carefully wrought questions. More patient and far more understanding than any shrink, she drew me out of myself and helped me get in touch with my emotions. By the time we got to the Pacific coastline, she and I were in perfect synchrony, communicating without speaking and transmitting volumes with a smile and a touch of our hands. It was late afternoon, and if I played my cards right, my vision would come true.  
  
****  
  
Lovely swatches of color tinted the Malibu sky as we walked on the beach with our sneakers tied around our necks. Magenta and fuchsia quarreled with peach and indigo for dominance on the canvas of the most magnificent sunset I had ever seen. The sea breeze was fresh and clean and all was right in the world.  
  
We walked for miles and talked about everything but work. The music we liked. Our favorite foods. She liked gardening and old movies. I liked playing guitar and painting pictures. That last fact seemed to surprise her. I would have offered to show her my etchings but didn't want to ruin the moment with a cheap comment. When we got to the car, I opened the trunk and she saw my surprise. A cooler filled with ice and my favorite California zinfandel. A picnic basket with a gourmet meal that I'd snuck into the car while she showered this morning. A blanket that I'd bought on our travels. "Have dinner with me."  
  
"Michael," she started. "We….shouldn't."  
  
I wanted to say that we had spent the last four days together, sharing meals and trading stories like the best of friends. But she was right. This was our home turf and my house was no more than ten minutes away. I jogged on this beach nearly every morning. People I knew lived in houses that overlooked the water. How easy would it be for one of them to come upon us and start asking questions. I knew all that and I still didn't care. "Please. We might never get this chance again for a long time."  
  
And I might never get the chance to show her how I felt. She considered my request and finally relented. "All right."  
  
So we spread the blanket and opened the wine and watched the sun fall to the sea with its fiery arms and shared some crusty croissants. It was a perfect moment and I would never forget the way that sunset reflected in her eyes as she looked at me. Her hands slid along the blanket and captured mine. I wasn't sure where this was going and didn't want to scare her off when we had come so far. I looked down at her tanned fingers intertwined with mine and felt the dream start to come alive, dancing along my senses and bursting into song. I raised my head and was mesmerized by the perfect symmetry of her features. I loosened one hand and traced her cheekbones and let my hand fall to her chin. She closed her eyes at my touch and the smallest of sighs left her lips. Encouraged, I leaned closer and moaned when she twined my hair around her hand. Freeing her other hand, she ran her fingers through my wind-tousled hair. "I've wanted to do that for so long," she admitted gently.  
  
"And I've wanted to do this." I started to kiss her cheek, but she turned her head at the last second and our lips met. For a moment, we stared at each other in stunned surprise and I felt the insane urge to laugh. Then her lips softened under mine and I forgot about laughing. It started gentle and soft, the merest touch of my mouth on hers, her eyelids fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird against my face. Her breathing quickened and her mouth opened under mine. With slow deliberation, I traced her lips with my tongue, endlessly exploring their perfect shape and sucking on her lower lip with my teeth before I extended my reach and our tongues danced and quarreled as we bit and sucked at each other like two starving people. Tasting her, savoring her like a fine delicacy, feasting on cinnamon and mocha while she dined on the flavor left by my Altoids. Each swoop of our tongues sent us further along the road of no return, and I knew we had to stop before things got out of hand. I broke off the kiss first and saw her disappointment, but I also saw understanding dawn in her lovely, luminous eyes.  
  
I rested my forehead against hers and we stayed like that for awhile with joined hands, watching the moon rise and shine brightly along the endless rise and fall of the breakers hitting the sand. "It's time to go back," she said finally.  
  
Backward and forward at the same time. When we returned to our respective lives and resumed our roles, I'd have to forego the pleasure of her company for the lonely spaces of my house and the cold comfort of a TV dinner. We rose to our feet and I hugged her against me as we walked back to the car, returning to fight the good fight and waiting for the day when we could be together openly.  
  
We drove to her house in silence and parked across the street, the Porsche shrouded by the darkness of an overhanging branch. Her friend Francie appeared in the kitchen window, oblivious to our presence as we watched quietly, filled with quiet contemplation. Syd touched the journal and looked at me solemnly as she took my hand in hers. "Remember, when you're at your absolute lowest, your most depressed, just remember that you can always.. you know... you've got my number."  
  
A deliberate echo of an earlier conversation on the pier that was the turning point in our relationship. "Thank you, Sydney."  
  
I kissed her on the forehead and she got out of the car. "Goodbye, Michael. I guess I'll see you around."  
  
"Bye, Syd." My voice was soft and filled with a love that overwhelmed me at times with its intensity, but a love I'd have to save for another day when the time was right. Perhaps next week, or perhaps in seven years. However long it took, I would always be here for her, my head spinning with inherited craziness, just three bricks shy of a full load.  
  
The End 


End file.
